


Cover to Cover

by TrenchcoatBaby



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Alternate Universe - Library, Alternate Universe - Modern with Magic, Angst with a Happy Ending, Bisexual Dean Winchester, Castiel/Dean Winchester Flirting, Characters Reading, Confident Castiel (Supernatural), Dean Winchester is Good With Children, Explicit Sexual Content, Fluff and Smut, Gay Castiel (Supernatural), Happy Ending, Insecure Dean Winchester, Librarian Dean Winchester, Literature, M/M, Meet-Cute, Miscommunication, Mutual Pining, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, POV Dean Winchester
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-10-01
Updated: 2020-02-07
Packaged: 2020-11-08 16:10:17
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 6
Words: 28,036
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20838329
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TrenchcoatBaby/pseuds/TrenchcoatBaby
Summary: Dean Winchester is a workaholic librarian employed by the largest and most magical library in the world. When he begrudgingly participates in an anonymous, penpal-style book exchange, he’s swept up by a chance encounter with a stranger. But how is he supposed to stay focused on his reading when a blue-eyed hottie in a trenchcoat is wandering around the library, just begging to be kissed?





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Lorelei2005](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Lorelei2005/gifts).

> Welcome, friends! This is the final lot I’m writing for the Fic Facer 2019 auction, and this piece is for the ultra-kind and gorgeous Lorelei2005. This story originally wasn't supposed to be a WIP, but I wrote the posting deadline down wrong (oops) and quickly discovered that I really love this verse. Full disclosure: I have no idea how long this fic will be or how often the updates will come. But those of you who've read my WIPs before know that I'm good for it. I won't leave ya hanging!
> 
> I _would_ share the original prompt with you, but it actually has some spoilers in it that I'm trying to neither confirm nor deny, so let's just say that Lorelei requested I set this Destiel love story in a romantic, magical library that "lends a hand with flying books that act as hints." 
> 
> Challenged. Accepted. 
> 
> As always, my betas are my family, and I love them so: [EllenOfOz](https://archiveofourown.org/users/EllenOfOz/pseuds/EllenOfOz), [CBFirestarter](https://archiveofourown.org/users/CBFirestarter/pseuds/CBFirestarter), [WaywardAF67](https://archiveofourown.org/users/WaywardAF67/pseuds/WaywardAF67), and [WaywardJenn](https://archiveofourown.org/users/waywardjenn/pseuds/waywardjenn). They encouraged my very first fic ever and haven't stopped reading since!

_ “Books are a uniquely portable magic.” – Stephen King _

The book closes as Dean Winchester reads the final word, applause from the cheering crowd making his cheeks flush. He squirms a little in his chair, a grin plastered on his face as he runs a hand over the spine of a thin paper-over-board children’s book called _ Margaret’s First Cauldron. _It’s an older book, a few decades old, but for whatever reason the younger spellcasters can’t seem to get enough of it. And as the Children’s Director for the biggest library of magic and mortal texts in the country, Dean is in the business of making children happy. 

“Okay, okay,” he mutters good-naturedly, scratching the back of his neck in embarrassment as the audience claps more, “let’s use our inside voices, kiddos. This_ is _ a library.”

As a librarian Dean is supposed to say stuff like that, but in reality, he couldn’t care less if the kids get a little rowdy. Number one, this entire floor is the children’s library, so there’s always a good amount of shenanigans going on that are anything but quiet. Between activity rooms, there are rows and rows of bookcases containing every type of younger-reader text imaginable—hell, Dean even helped develop a children’s poetry spellcasting section for kids who are hypersensitive, like his younger brother was when he was growing up. That was the first clue that Sammy’s primary ability would be empathy, a deep and penetrating power to read people’s emotions. That innate power is why Sam has always been able to read Dean like a…well, a book. 

Dean couldn’t empathize his way out of a paper bag—at least, not like his brother—but he’s pretty good at inventive, imaginative magic. He doesn’t like to admit it, but it’s why his biweekly storytime is the most popular event the department puts on. He’s damn good at connecting with children and thinking quick on his feet, and toss in some magic and a few good books, and Dean’s one of those rare twenty-somethings who’s already found his calling.

“Mister Winchester, will you read another?” a little boy asks shyly. His mother, Lisa, stands upright and flashes Dean a dazzling smile. She’s a pretty brunette with plump, pink lips and a firm yoga instructor’s body. To be honest, Dean’s been dying to hit that, but he puts Little Dean on the back burner while he’s at work. It was hard enough working his way up the ranks in this department as a single guy, but if uses his facetime with the community as a way to hit on hot moms (or dads) then he’ll be jeopardizing his dream job. 

“Sorry, buddy, I can’t. Heading into a meeting soon,” he answers, disappointed that he can’t stay longer. Storytime is twenty minutes out of his otherwise busy day that he can just let loose and enjoy his job without any of bureaucratic, public-work tape or mandatory administrative check-ins or _ blah blah blah_. “Why don’t you pick out a new book, and your mom can read it to you at home?”

Lisa flashes him another smile, but the boy pouts visibly. “I didn’t like my last book. It sucked.”

“Benjamin,” Lisa interjects, her tone a little sharp as she squeezes her son’s shoulder. She looks back up at Dean, her expression rueful. “Sorry. Ben doesn’t love reading—coming to your storytime has really gotten him into the habit. He loves the way you read.”

Dean feels a flutter of warmth in his chest. Even though he can see his staff eyeing him from behind the crowd, likely indicating that he’s about to be late for his meeting, he squats low until he’s eye-level with Ben. “Well, Ben, then I’ll tell you a secret about this library. If you think you can handle it.”

“Yeah,” Ben answers evenly, though his eyes are bright and curious.

“See, this place…” Dean’s voice is a hushed whisper as he sweeps his hands around. “It was built by magic. When you’re inside a building as special as this, with magic in the bones, you can just ask for something and sometimes—if you’re lucky—you’ll get it.”

“So…” The kid squints, thinking hard. “if I asked for a cheese pizza…”

Dean laughs, wondering if he and this kid are cut from the same cloth. “I didn’t mean _ that _kinda stuff, but it is almost lunchtime, so I like where your head’s at.” He ruffles a hand through Ben’s hair, standing back up and straightening his flannel button-up. “I meant the books. They’re magic in more ways than one, dude. If you go looking for a new book, and you want it real bad, the right one will find you.”

Ben’s eyes widened. Like most kids, he’s impressed by the promise of magic, even magic as ambiguous as the library’s. Personally, Dean’s never been one to believe in it—spellcasting is imprecise and abstract, and even though the place is chock full of buzzing electricity and mystical energy, the nonsensical promise of cosmic forces interfering in your life simply because you _ wish _for it isn’t something he relies on. Still, the folklore of the library’s magic is usually enough to make every reader find the “perfect” book on their own. Dean knows it’s a placebo effect, the belief in the system becoming enough to make the system statistically true. But he’d never ruin the magic for anyone else, especially a kid.

Ben thanks Dean in a rush before pulling his mom in the direction of the new fiction releases. She laughs in surprise and brushes her hand against Dean’s arm as she passes. A few other people stop him on his way to the conference room, and by the time he makes it through the door doubles, down the hallway, up three flights of stairs and to the right, he’s ten minutes late. 

“Look at you!” Jo exclaims, running a hand through her blonde curls. Dean expects to get reprimanded, but instead she says, “You’re five minutes early.”

He drops into a chair at the head of the table, looking back at his friend skeptically. “Your clock broken, Quasimodo? I’m ten minutes late.”

“He lived in a bell tower, not a clock tower,” Jo says, stinking her tongue out. Next to him, Charlie fumbles with her notepad with such concentration that Dean suddenly realizes…

“You did it again,” he says accusatorily, shaking his head. “Charlie, what the hell? You can’t keep telling me these meetings are fifteen minutes _ earlier _ than they actually start.”

Benny and Aaron shake their heads in weirdly perfect unison.

“S’only way to get you here on time, brother,” Benny points out. 

“So sorry for being busy,” Dean mutters grumpily.

“Hey, we’re all busy,” Charlie counters. “Head of Technology Services over here.”

“Building Security,” Benny says, hooking a thumb towards his chest. 

“Circulation,” Aaron adds.

“Event planning,” Jo says.

“Children’s library,” Dean offers sarcastically, since they’re all stating the obvious today. He’s worked here for three years and really is friends with his coworkers—maybe even best friends—but they’re bringing in some weird energy today. “What’s with the recap? Are we in the pilot of a reality show nobody told me about?”

Jo snorts. “Most boring TV show ever, doncha think? ‘Tune in on tonight’s episode, where the head librarian gets a paper cut while reshelving.’”

Everyone laughs, including Dean, and he’s thankful to have the focus off of him for a while. That is, until Charlie says in a somber voice, “We’re just worried about you. Your life outside of work is like, nonexistent.”

“And you don’t delegate,” Jo adds in, before Dean can even form a response. “The fact that you still do storytime—”

“Uh-uh, you’ll pry storytime out of my cold, dead, librarian fingers,” Dean interrupts fiercely. 

“Listen—” Benny begins, but Dean’s had just about enough of this.

“What’s with the intervention? I work when I wanna work, end of story. I don’t come into your departments and tell you how to run them.”

His friends frown a little. “We just want you to be happy,” Charlie concedes softly, hand brushing Dean’s elbow. “You’re twenty-seven. You’re the first one here and the last to leave. Go out and have some fun.”

Dean opens his mouth to retort when the library director, Missouri Moseley, comes in holding a clipboard. She closes the door behind her with a wave of her hand, and eyes Dean with surprise. “Dean, you’re on time,” she comments happily. “Did Charlie purposefully tell you the wrong time again?”

Dean crosses his arms, leaning into his wooden chair. “No comment,” he says, pretending to be joking when his comment is true. So what if he doesn’t have much of a social life outside of work? How’s he supposed to meet someone while he’s in meetings, or reorganizing the floorplan, or reading aloud and casting illusion magic to turn himself into a one-horned witch with an evil cackle? He goes out to the Roadhouse on Fridays, has dinner with Sam on Tuesdays, and hosts Sunday lunch with Bobby. Not to mention he works with kids in a _ magic library_. He has fun, dammit. 

Dean’s spared any more self-reflection when the last few stragglers join them around the table, and Missouri begins the meeting. They go around the table giving updates on their individual departments, which doesn’t take as long as usual by some stroke of luck. Dean checks his watch, thinking that he might be able to observe the weekly puppet show if he skips lunch, when Missouri clears her throat. Instead of dismissing them, she says, “Since it’s the new year, I’ve been thinking about ways to improve not only the lives of our library members, but also the lives of each of you—the employees who work so tirelessly and make this library truly magical.”

Dean fights back a snort—he’s not really into the whole, let’s-put-the-library-on-a-pedestal thing. Sure, he loves where he works, but at the end of the day it’s not about the building. It’s about the people. 

“I was looking at your year-end surveys over the holiday, and realized that very little of you have time to read for fun anymore. I think it’s time we change that.” 

Dean has a million questions, but seeing as she’s their boss, he waits patiently for her to continue. “I’m instating an official librarian book exchange. Each month, you’ll check out a book you’ve read and recommend it to one of your colleagues. The twist is, you won’t pick who receives the book—the library’s magic will send it to the right recipient. At the same time, you’ll receive your own book from an anonymous employee, and have the whole month to finish it.”

“Cool,” Charlie says. “Hope my library penpal likes LGBTQ fantasy novels, ‘cause they’re getting a lot of ‘em.”

“Think it’ll be boring if I just send wartime autobiographies?” Jo asks, and while everyone else laughs and answers some form of _ yes, _Dean leans back into his chair, thinking.

“How does this work? Will we be exchanging with the same person each time?” Aaron asks.

“One person will be randomly selected to send the book first, with the recipient to follow. I imagine each month will be different, with a different person to interact with, but who knows? We know the library works in ways we don’t usually expect.”

Dean barely contains an eye roll. “So, this is cool and all, but uh…what if you don’t really have time to participate?” he asks carefully. Everyone’s gaze hits him at the same time, and he clears his throat and looks away. “Just sayin’, there’s a reason I don’t read much these days.”

“I can appreciate how much you do for the children’s library, Dean,” Missouri says softly. “But this isn’t optional. You all represent just a few departments in the east side of the library. But there are hundreds of employees here total spanning across twenty-seven floors. The fifty other heads of departments have agreed to work this initiative into their busy schedules, so I imagine you’ll each find the time.”

“In other words, suck it up, buttercup,” Jo whispers in his ear, and Dean kicks her ankle under the table. Fine, he’ll participate, whatever. Doesn’t mean he has to like it.

***

On exchange day, Dean comes in early to skulk around the three levels of fiction books for inspiration. Everyone employed by the library is over eighteen, so he doesn’t have to censor himself like he does in his own department. Truthfully, it’s been a long time since he’s held a book that didn’t have cartoon illustrations in it, and he spends almost an hour running his hands over jacket hardcovers of various shapes and sizes. He has no clue who his reading pal is gonna be, but he hopes they like a challenge, because he checks on Doris’ Lessing’s six-hundred-page political manifesto novel. He’s never read the whole thing, just excerpts from a Women and Gender Studies course in college, but Charlie calls it the “feminist bible” so he figures it can’t be that bad. Thumbing through it, he sees the format is weird as hell—there’s a main storyline and then four colored notebooks with separate stories inside. Huh. The pages are jam-packed with text, the font and trim-size small. Postmodernism at its finest. 

When he gets back to his desk he thinks on his selection, wondering if he’s being too much of a jackass. But, y’know, if he’s going to be forced to join in on a company-wide book club, it only stands to reason that he’s gonna make it fun for himself and difficult for everyone else. He tears a scrap paper from his notebook and writes one of his favorite quotes onto the scrap: 

_ “I believe books should be like a prime rib steak—good and thick.” _

_ ― E.A. Bucchianeri _

He chuckles to himself, suddenly craving steak, and slides the note inside the front flap. He taps the book three times like Missouri instructed—on exchange day, this activates the building’s spell—and the novel rises off his desk and zooms out the door. He watches it go, doors parting in its wake, and spots it round the corner and head for the staircase. He doesn’t catch a glimpse of its direction, if it goes up or down, but he’s tempted to see what poor sucker is gonna get that tome to read. 

The rest of the day is chaotic. Anytime he braves the hallway there are books hovering and flying every which way. Jo’s book nearly smacks her in the forehead, and she groans when she sees it’s _ Little Women. _ Things are calmer in the children’s library for once, since none of the books involved in the exchange are coming from his department, so Dean buries himself in designing the bulletin boards for next month. They always do an over-the-top theme for February, all hearts and red and pink, and he’s deciding if the featured book of the month should be _ My Familiar’s First Valentine _ or _ Warlock the Wizard and the Very Bad, Good for Nothing, Valentine’s Day, _ when the double-doors open wide. To his surprise, one of the thickest hardcovers he’s ever seen flies through the air and falls at his feet like a carefully delivered package. He bends over to pick it up, and sees it’s a one-thousand-page David Foster Wallace novel called _ Infinite Jest. _Jesus. Dean’s heard of this book—isn’t it satirical?—but he’s never found the time (or, to be honest, the bravery) to dive into a book this incredibly long.

“Son of a bitch,” Dean mutters, opening the front flap for any sort of note. He never quite considered the negative impacts his gambit could have, but it seems picking the longest and most tedious read for his exchange means he’s receiving the same treatment in return. Obviously whoever’s tasked with reading _ The Golden Notebook _has an equally wicked sense of humor. Rather than sending a paper note, a spelled sentence appears in the air in front of Dean’s face, the careful cursive flowing into the air:

_ Your move. _

Dean tries to fight it, but he can't.

He laughs.

***

It shouldn’t be surprising how time-consuming a book_ this _ fucking long takes Dean to get through, but for some reason, it does. Surprise him, that is. The first few days he groans and complains to anyone who listens, though when they figure out Dean sent his reading partner an outrageously long book _ first, _all of their sympathy sorta flies out of the window. Traitors. 

It takes about a week for Dean to wrap his head around the unusual structure—there are four main plotlines, and footnotes attached to endnotes, for god’s sake—but once he dives headfirst into it, the whole thing gets a lot more interesting. Instead of working through lunch as usual, he starts buying lunch again and claims a window seat of the small cafe, fully engaged in his reading and chuckling under his breath. Charlie watches him occasionally like a mother goose watches her baby…goose? Geese? Gosling? Dean’s a children’s librarian, he really oughta know this kind of thing. Either way, after two weeks, his friends think it’s adorable that he’s gotten so into the book after being vocally against the mandatory book exchange. He starts reading it at home away from their prying eyes, warm and comfortable in his favorite armchair. 

He even cancels on Tuesday night dinner with Sam because he’s at a really good section, and his brother seems more amused than disappointed, telling Dean that it’s very satisfying to finally get to call _ him _the nerd after all these years of relentless jabs. Dean accepts Sam’s teasing with as much grace as he can muster and ends the call, reading until two a.m. He rolls into work late the next morning with a huge travel mug of coffee glued to his hand. 

“You know you don’t have to finish it, right? Missouri isn’t requiring a book report, man.” Jo prods him, her pokes turning annoying as he buries his nose in the book further. “I can’t stand _ Little Women, _y’know. I read the first chapter and am callin’ it a day.”

“There’s that lack of ambition that makes you a perfect Hufflepuff,” Charlie snipes playfully. This is an old argument between the two—she loves Hufflepuffs as a house, but Jo self-identifies as a Gryffindor, and as such, is vehemently offended at the suggestion she could be anything but.

“Oh, those are fighting words, Slytherin,” Jo answers, voice rising. 

Dean rolls his eyes. If he can’t find a quiet place to read in a literal library, where the hell is he supposed to go? 

He finishes the book with one day to spare, and celebrates at home with a glass of whiskey and the smug satisfaction that his anyonyous reading buddy didn’t best him. Ha. That’ll teach him/her/they to mess with Dean Winchester. He’s a professional-ass reader and everyone else can suck it. 

The next day is February 14th, and a truckload of kids from the local magic academy are being shipped off to the children’s library to be babysat for over an hour. Dean’s staff is worried about keeping the kids corralled, but he tells Alfie and Becky that holidays are always chaotic and they might as well accept the chaos and run with it. Weirdly enough this did little to soothe them, but Dean knows they’ll get through the day just fine. He walks into the east side of the library with an extra pep in his step—he finished his book and will be receiving a new one today. He’s sorta excited to see what kind of torture his reading pal is gonna send him this month, when it occurs to him that he might get a different person altogether. That stops him in his tracks, literally, and he slumps against the threshold of his office. What if he gets paired up with that grouchy old lady who’s always organizing and reorganizing the encyclopedias? Or the guy in audiobooks who talks too loud and spits when he enunciates? 

Oh well, he tries to tell himself. This is just some stupid workplace initiative to read. It’s not like he was actually gonna become friends with this rando, even if they do sound kinda snarky and fun. 

“Dean,” Becky squeaks, coming into his office without her customary knock, “Dean!”

“Hey Becky,” he says cautiously, adjusting his salmon-colored sweater. He feels a little ridiculous, all dressed up in slacks and form-fitting crewneck, but he likes to look a little nicer on holidays. “What’s up?”

“What’s up is…the puppeteers pulled out. They left us a voicemail late last night!” She throws her arms up, clearly in a tizzy. “What are we gonna do?”

“I’ll just do it,” Dean says instantly. He hasn’t exactly practiced, but how hard can it be? He does the readings well enough.

“You can’t. You have a meeting with a benefactor scheduled around the same time,” Becky says. 

“Shit. Who is it?”

“Zachariah Alder.”

Dean bites his lip, frowning. He really shouldn’t cancel. He should ask Becky or Alfie to do the puppet show instead, or maybe someone from the drama department in the west library would want to flex their acting skills. But he can’t stand the idea of giving the kids a subpar show, and Alder is kind of a dick. Dean dreads those kiss-up meetings more than life itself. “Call him and cancel. Tell him there’s been…an, uh, emergency.”

“A puppet emergency?” Becky asks dryly.

“Feel free to leave that part out,” Dean responds, matching her sardonic tone, and she nods aggressively and heads back to the front desk. Dean has just a moment’s reprieve before there’s a stack of approval forms for him to sign, a slew of phone calls to take, and then it’s ten o’clock and the first group of kids are being ushered inside. Dean keeps working while Alfie gives them a tour of the children’s floor—the activity rooms full of puzzles, the spaces for safe spellcasting, the aquarium full of magical puffer fish that always manages to wow visitors. Their tour ends in the storytelling room, strewn with streamers and hanging cartoon hearts, and Dean ends a phone call just in time to go meet them. 

The twenty-plus kids are already circled up on the Reading Rug, sitting criss-cross applesauce. He’s never seen any of these kids before, but he remembers Alfie saying they’re in third grade. There’s a large amount of adult chaperones behind them, one being the teacher and the rest, seemingly, parent volunteers. He takes in the room as a whole—the decorations, the kids, Alfie. For some reason his vision is pulled to the back, where a ridiculously hot guy with messy brown hair and five o’clock shadow is leaned against the wall. His face is practically sculpted from marble, he’s so lean and strong. He's wearing a weird combo of clothes: a business suit, a wrinkled trenchcoat, and a pair of shiny dress shoes. 

Their eyes meet across the room, holding each other’s gaze for longer than is polite considering they’re total strangers. Dean swallows nervously and forces himself to look away—it should be illegal to be that hot when Dean’s in a position where he can’t do jack about it. He’s kept his no-funny-business-at-work rule going for three years now, but he’s never wanted to break it quite this badly before. 

He claps his hands together, refocusing the room as a hush spreads. The first book he reads is _ Roses Are Pink, Your Feet Really Stink _ and the kids laugh absurdly loud when they realize halfway through the book that Dean’s spelled the room to smell like stinky feet. “Ew!” they shout, giggling hysterically when Dean plugs his nose and reads the rest of the book with a nasally undertone. The air clears with a wave of his hand, and he starts in on _ Angelica’s Valentine Snow Day. _ When snowflakes begin to sprinkle down from the ceiling, a warm sun shining behind Dean’s head, the kids _ ooh _ and _ aah _ with the perfect amount of enthusiasm. Dean risks casting a glance in the direction of Mr. Tall, Dark, and Trenchcoat, and finds his gaze locked on Dean’s face. That shouldn’t make him blush, since he _ is _technically reading for the entire room, so everyone is looking at him already. But there’s something about this guy that makes him lose concencentration, and he starts reading a sentence twice before stumbling aloud and getting back on track. He notices the guy grinning and feels a little embarrassed, wondering if his attraction is making him look as flustered as he feels. 

He finishes the reading without any further incident, and the kids beg for another story (as they do) but Dean’s got a puppet show to wing his way through in thirty minutes, so he’s forced to say no. Still, he mills around for a few minutes, listening to some of the chattier kids and introducing himself to the elementary school teacher. He keeps spotting the trenchcoat guy in his peripheral vision, but he’s not quite ballsy enough to go up and introduce himself…at least, not while he’s at work. Awkwardly enough, the teacher slips him her number to “discuss library membership” and he tucks it into his back pocket with zero intention of using it. It’s only after she’s finally left that his eyes wander, realizing he’s lost track of the sexy stranger. Damn. He crosses his arms, ducking his head around casually. He turns around slowly and collides with someone—_someone _with a firm chest, tall, lean body, and stunning blue eyes. Jesus Christ.

“Uh…” he begins intelligently. “S-sorry.”

“No problem.” Trenchcoat Guy smiles at him, broad and gummy, but there’s something in his eyes that makes Dean feel like he’s on display somehow. Is this how he looks at barflies at the Roadhouse? Like he’s two seconds from devouring them? “I can point you in the direction of the nearest trashcan, if you’d like.”

Dean squints his eyes, officially lost. “Huh?”

“The phone number.” The guy takes a closer step, his voice quiet. “Amara is fine, but a little aggressive. Unless that’s what you’re looking for…”

This room is suddenly very, very hot. 

“Maybe it is,” Dean mumbles, his voice a low rumble, and wow, why can’t he stop staring at this guy’s lips? They’re just so pink. “Depends on the offer.”

“Noted,” the guy says, that mischievous glint in his eyes making Dean’s insides turn to jello. “I’m Castiel.” 

“Wow, that’s a mouthful.” Dean winces, hoping he didn’t insult the guy, but he just laughs softly.

“I’ve heard that before,” Castiel replies, and there’s an undercurrent of innuendo in his voice that makes Dean’s cheeks flush. “And you're…?”

“Dean.” They shake hands, grips equally firm, and hold hands for long enough that Dean wonders if people notice. “Which one of ‘em is yours?”

“Claire. Blonde, pigtails,” Castiel says casually, pointing to a girl who’s standing under the spelled snowflakes and marveling at them. Dean expected the spell to end once the book was finished, but it’s just another bizarre day of working at the library—the length of spells are unpredictable at best. “She’s my brother’s daughter, but he got called into work last minute and asked if I would help chaperone their field trip.” 

“That was nice of you,” Dean says mildly, wanting to ask a million more questions but not trusting himself at the moment. Castiel smiles, looking up at the snow with a look of reverence on his face. He reaches a hand out, almost brushing Dean’s cheek, and Dean surprises himself by being totally cool with the idea of Castiel caressing him. Wow, this random hottie has really gotten inside his head. 

“Apologies, I forgot for a moment,” Castiel mutters. 

“That we’re not alone?” Dean asks without thinking. 

Castiel’s eyes go wide, though he genuinely smiles. “That the snowflakes weren’t real. I didn’t want your cheek to get wet.” His voice is impossibly deep as he says, “But it’s nice to know that…” He doesn’t finish his sentence, and he doesn’t have to. Dean’s face burns bright red. 

“Yeah, well, there’s a reason for that.” Dean finds an interesting spot on the floor and just _ stares. _

“Which is?”

Dean takes a deep breath. “You’re crazy hot, Cas.”

He chances a glance up, and the look Castiel is giving him nearly makes his knees buckle. “If I were to give you my number, the most handsome children’s librarian I’ve ever seen, who I happened to meet on Valentine’s Day…would it inevitably end up in the trashcan alongside Amara’s?”

Dean chuckles, looking down again and scratching the back of his neck. “God, I wish it wouldn’t, but…” He shakes his head and looks up, Castiel’s face slightly crestfallen. 

“You’re unavailable?” 

“No!” Dean says a little too quickly. “Uh, no, I am. Available, I mean. I just…I don’t date people I meet at work. Most parents don’t really dig the idea of a guy who sleeps around reading their kids stories, y’know?” 

Understanding dawns on Castiel’s face, and he nods. “Well, then it was nice to meet you, Dean. I hope it’s not for the last time.”

He eyes Dean openly, appreciatively, one final time before turning around and heading towards his niece. Dean sighs heavily, feeling apprehensive and nervous and a little turned on. Fuck his stupid rules and stupid moral code. He wants to get horizontal with Castiel right this fucking second.

But he doesn’t. Instead, he let’s Alfie usher him into the puppet room, and he throws himself into performing for another batch of kids. He feels like his voices are a little off, but the kids are laughing and having a great time, so he considers the day a win. When he gets back to his desk, it’s only midday and he already feels fried. The outrageous Valentine’s Day decorations he’s surrounded by suddenly make him sober. Had he been too hasty in rejecting Castiel? It’s been a long time since he’s been so taken with someone so quickly, and though Lisa and Amara were both gorgeous in different ways, there’s something about Cas’ cool demeanor and strong frame that made Dean want to fall against his chest, Harlequin-romance style. 

Ironically, it’s that thought he’s having when his office door is thrust open with a magical gust. A small but thick paperback flies onto his desk, and Dean doesn’t even need to read the title. He sees the author’s name and he laughs so loud that Alfie comes by to check on him.

Danielle Steel.

“You’ve gotta be fucking kidding,” he moans. The cover is of a coastal town, with a woman in a long flowing dress running down a pier. This is romance novel garbage 101. He cracks open the paperback, and another message appears in cursive:

_ I was going to send you this as punishment for Doris Lessing, but her novel was actually quite lovely, so no punishment necessary. I should also mention that I don’t know if this is going back to you or a new stranger, in which case, apologies to you, new stranger. You are simply caught in the crossfire between one anonymous library employee and another anonymous library employee. Anyways, let’s just say I was feeling romantic today and thought I should spread the feeling. Happy Valentine’s Day. _

Dean shakes his head, a thought dawning in his head. Struck by sudden inspiration, he heads to the adult fiction section. He borrows a pen and paper from the attendant, and writes: 

_ If Danielle Steel isn’t punishment, I don’t know what is…oh wait, yes I do. It’s this book. Enjoy, buddy. _

_ P.S. Glad you liked Doris. David Foster Wallace ain’t no slouch either. _

He slides the note into a tattered copy of _ Fifty Shades of Grey, _grinning wickedly, and taps the spine three times. The book hovers in the air before taking off at top speed, and Dean claps his hands together, smugly whistling all the way back to his office. 


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Evening, babes! Thanks so much for all the love you showed this first chapter. Y'all are the BOMB.
> 
> Now, enjoy some more library goodness.

Dean does not read romance books. He absolutely does not, without a doubt, read—

“Ooh, that’s one of my favorites,” Becky squeals. Dean’s face reddens, the Danielle Steel paperback sliding out of his hand. His lunch is a sandwich stretched across a brown paper bag, crumbles scattered, a can of soda cracked open. 

“Yeah, it’s, uh, fine,” Dean says dismissively, sliding his bookmark in to hold his place. “Just my required readin’.”

“Lucky,” Becky says, adjusting her cardigan. “I’m basically being tortured by whoever I got this month.”

“Whatcha got?” 

“A memoir about the Vietnam War,” Becky says sadly, looking like she’d find a stove manual more interesting. Dean snorts, nearly choking on his sip of soda—he’s ninety-nine percent sure Becky’s secret pal this month is either the old man who works in the history section…or Jo, making good on her promise. 

“It’s not funny!” Becky’s shrill voice only makes Dean laugh harder, and she stalks off and shuts his door. Dean wipes laugh-tears from his eyes, resolved to apologize later. Still, it’s nice to know he’s not the only one being shaken up by this book exchange. He looks down at the paperback, not sure what a lady who’s been married five times is gonna teach him about romance…but he can’t deny that the story has sucked him in. 

Even worse, he’s spent the past three weeks daydreaming about the guy he met in the library. He’s pretty sure it’s because he’s spent every night falling asleep to quotes like _ you'd be surprised how fast things happen when the right man comes along. _Not that Castiel is, or even could be, Dean’s “right man”—that would be a ridiculous thing to think, considering they met weeks ago and talked for all of five minutes. When it comes to Castiel, he doesn’t even have a last name or a phone number, but he has a crystal clear memory of piercing blue eyes, and a voice low and sultry, and the way their bodies had gravitated towards each other, just begging to collide—

Dean clears his throat, blinking as he throws out the remainder of his lunch. No offense to Danielle, but she’s not a children’s librarian trying to maintain a decent reputation. He really can’t afford to keep daydreaming about a total stranger, especially one he’s never gonna see again. Why the hell has Castiel gotten stuck in his subconscious like this? Dean gets hit on pretty regularly, and can go down to the Roadhouse on any given day and find someone to take home. That’s what he needs, he decides, just a random barfly to scratch this itch. He texts Benny right then to see if he’s down to get into some trouble after work.

He buries the Danielle Steel novel into the depth of his knapsack, thinking suddenly about this anonymous reading buddy and how they’re getting on with _ 50 Shades. _ He hopes his little friend is getting a kick out of it. He/she/they had read Danielle Steel, apparently, so they’re no stranger to the genre. Dean had read _ 50 Shades _ as a joke with his then-girlfriend, Rhonda Hurley, and they’d laughed at the absurdity of it…until Rhonda had suggested Dean put on her satin, pink panties. 

They hadn’t laughed much after that. 

Stopping that train of thought right in its tracks—he is at _ work _, after all—Dean spends the rest of the afternoon going over the budget, trying to figure out why they’re in the red for February when they saved money on the lack of puppeteers. Turns out a purchase was put into the budget twice, just under different item descriptions, and he fires off a quick email to Missouri addressing the error. By three o’clock, he walks out of his office feeling accomplished and a little badass, and he’s heading towards the kitchenette to refill his coffee mug when he spots him.

Castiel.

He looks different—decked in spandex shorts and a sleek jacket, earbuds hanging at his neck. He’s bending over a shelf, Claire squeaking excitedly over a colorful hardcover book. His posture is a little straighter, his face slack and patient, that gleam of mischief absent in his eyes. Dean walks towards the pair before he can help himself, calls out a quick, “Hey there.”

“Mister Dean!” Claire shouts excitedly. 

Castiel turns around, barely giving him a second glance before he says, “Oh, hello. You work here?”

Dean sputters a little—Castiel had seen him at work firsthand, during the Valentine’s Day reading. Is this a weird joke? “Yeah,” he says evenly, searching Castiel’s face for any sign of recognition. He doesn’t find one, and Dean’s stomach drops the longer he stares. 

“Well, Clairebear is looking for the second book in this series,” Castiel says, twirling his hand in Claire’s pigtail as if he hasn’t just ruined Dean’s whole day. Jesus, the guy doesn’t even remember him, does he? 

“Pretty sure it’s been checked out,” Dean replies, his throat dry. Claire looks disappointed, and it’s not her fault that her uncle is a mega-flirt one day and a dismissive a-hole the next, so he adds, “Go over to circulation and Alfie will put her on the waitlist.”

“Thanks,” Castiel says, giving him a polite smile before grabbing Claire’s hand and leading them away. As Dean watches them go, he spots a glimmering, golden wedding ring on Castiel’s left hand.

Son of a bitch. 

Dean abandons his empty coffee mug on a nearby table and runs into the men’s bathroom, splashing water on his face and staring into the mirror. Okay, so…he’s spent the last three weeks wondering if he’d made a big mistake turning Castiel down, only to discover that the guy not only forgot about him the moment he left the library, but he’s fucking _ married _? And on a less important but still totally baffling note, the guy is still hot, but Dean doesn’t feel a shred of chemistry with him this time. 

What the hell is going on?

He knows he shouldn’t confront him with his niece around, but he can’t help but feel like Castiel owes him some sort of explanation. Which doesn’t make any sense—they’re practically strangers—but he leaves the bathroom full of self-righteous indignation. The moment he can corner Castiel alone, he’s gonna ask him why the fuck he thinks it’s okay to flirt with people and get their hopes up when he’s clearly married. 

The opportunity arises sooner than he expects, when he swings open the bathroom door and sees Castiel leaned against the wall in the hallway.

“Don’t forget to wash your hands,” he calls out as the women’s bathroom door swings closed. He spots Dean watching him, and shakes his head ruefully. “You’d think she’d remember, but the one time I don’t say it, she’ll get all germy and catch a cold. Her mother would never let me live it down.”

Dean grunts in his direction, shocked that he’s being forced to hear domestic spouse stories now from the guy who’s been the main star of his wet dreams for weeks. He keeps walking and Castiel lowers his head, pulling out his cell phone. Dean halts his steps, regaining his resolve to give this guy a piece of his mind, and turns around. 

“You know,” he starts, “I don’t care about me. Obviously I wasn’t even a blimp on your radar. But Claire deserves better than watching you flirt with strangers while you’re wearing that ring.”

Castiel’s eyebrows knit together, his face freezing with confusion. “Excuse me?”

Dean laughs, shaking his head. “So you’re not even gonna admit it? Classy.”

“What are you…” Castiel blinks, his head tilting, until something seems to occur to him. “You’re the children’s librarian?”

“What clued you in? The office over there with my name on it?” Dean says sarcastically. 

“No, no, I mean—you’re _ the _librarian, the one Cas keeps talking about.” Something like a smile breaks out on his face. “He didn’t tell you he has a twin?”

“I…” Dean opens and closes his mouth in disbelief. There’s no way—this guy looks _ just like _ Castiel. “Wow, this is a really elaborate way to let me down gently, buddy. Oughta put those chops to work at the community theater.”

He starts walking again, more quickly this time, but the guy—whoever the hell he might be—grabs his wrist and holds him back. “Listen for a minute. I’m Jimmy. Claire’s my daughter, and Castiel is my twin. Look.” He lights up his phone background, and Dean has to do a double take. In the photo there are _ two _Castiels standing on the beach, one of them standing with an arm around a thin, light-haired brunette woman, Claire squeezed between them. The other Castiel—okay, maybe the only Castiel, if that other one really is Jimmy—looks gorgeous and golden and tan. And, Dean notes, absent of a date, spouse, or wedding ring. 

“Huh.” He scratches the back of neck, feeling embarrassed by all the accusations he’s slung this guy’s way. “Sorry, man. S’not everyday you think a guy is blowing you off, but turns out he’s just got a twin. That’s some soap opera crap.”

Jimmy laughs, waving a hand as if he thinks nothing of it. “Honestly, it happens more often than you’d think. Especially when we were growing up.” He’s about to slide his phone back into his pocket when “Castiel” pops up on the screen. “Oh, speak of the devil. He’s calling. Wanna say hi?”

“Ah, n-no, that’s fine,” Dean says in a rush, feeling flushed and bright red. “He probably doesn’t even remember me.”

Jimmy gives him a skeptical glare, and answers the phone with one quick swipe. “You’ll never guess who I’m talking o,” he says by way of greeting. Dean shoves his hands in his pockets, eyes sweeping the hallway for something interesting to focus on. “The librarian Claire said you have a crush on. He thought I was you, and he was not happy with me, by the way.”

Dean blushes, feeling awkward and panicked as Jimmy flashes him a grin. He outstretches his arm with the phone, waving it in Dean’s direction. “He wants to talk to you.”

“Oh, uh…okay.” Dean accept the phone, heavy and wider than his own, feeling disconcerted as Jimmy watches him with fascinated eyes. “Hello?”

“Hello, Dean,” Castiel says smoothly on the other end, almost like they talk on the phone daily. “How are you?”

“Could be worse,” Dean says noncommittally. Jimmy tilts he head, mouths that he’s going to check on Claire in the bathroom. Dean gives him a thumbs-up, grateful that their phone call has some semblance of privacy now. 

“I hear you ran into an incredibly handsome man today.”

Dean chuckles, staring down at his shoes. “Yeah, turns out you have a twin.”

“Something I surely would have mentioned, had we exchanged numbers.”

“Oh yeah?”

“Yes. I also would’ve told you you’re cute when you blush, but I haven’t had the opportunity.”

Dean, against his will, blushes harder. “Looks like you found one.”

“Are you blushing now?” Castiel asks, voice deep and rich as whiskey.

Dean pauses, fighting a smile. “Shuddup.” Castiel laughs, and Dean can’t help but laugh along with him. He thinks of a way to contribute more to the conversation, and ends up saying, “So, you’re, uh, an opportunistic guy?” _ Great job, Winchester. Real smooth talking. _

“You could say that.” There’s a pause, as if Castiel is trying to decide if he should elaborate. “I think often about life, and choices, and free will. And meeting you seemed…” Castiel chuckles lightly on the other end. “Serendipitous, to say the least.”

“You some sorta angel?” Dean laughs, realizing that sounds like a pickup line. “Uh, I just mean, you’re just up on a cloud contemplating life, seeing everything as glass-half-full. Like meeting some librarian is life-changing.”

“Dean,” Castiel says, adominishing, “you are many things, most of which I haven’t had the honor of uncovering yet, but I can assure you that you're not ‘some librarian’.”

Dean brings a hand to his face, scrubbing over his face and grinning like an idiot. “Where the hell did you come from, man?”

“I could tell you, but I’d rather maintain some mystery,” Castiel says with a chuckle. “My brother tells me it keeps things fresh.”

Before Dean can answer, the brother in question throws the door open, Claire shuffling her feet against the linoleum. 

“Speaking of, I think I oughta pass you back to your look-alike,” Dean jokes softly, catching Jimmy’s eye. 

“If you must,” Castiel says, with a dramatic sigh in Dean’s ear. “Till next time, Dean.”

“If you’re lucky.” He flashes a cocky smile, though Castiel can’t see him, and then he hands the phone back before he says something stupid to Castiel—like _ hey, you sexy, smart bastard, let’s go out and have sex and get married please. _Jimmy mumbles something into the receiver and Dean gives him a little wave, hoping to stumble away and mull things over, but something makes him stay. He stops at the double doors, waiting for Jimmy to end the call, and turns on his heels. 

“So,” he says lightly, as Jimmy pockets his phone. Dean is trying not to come off like a total creep, but maybe he is. Doesn’t he have a rule about dating people he’s met through work? Is Castiel worth the risk? “If I were to ask you for your brother’s number, you would say…?”

Jimmy smiles, shaking his head. “I would say, ask him yourself.” He wraps his hand around Claire’s shoulder as they move forward. Dean clears his throat, taken off-guard. He hadn’t expected Jimmy to refuse him, but then again, he supposes he’d be just as cautious towards some rando trying to get with his brother. “He’ll be at the picnic next weekend.”

“The picnic!” Claire shouts, her dad shushing her with an amused expression on his face. “Are you coming, Mister Dean?” 

“Never miss it,” he tells her honestly, feeling a little more hopeful. The library’s annual spring break picnic is pretty damn legendary. It’s one of Jo’s biggest events of the year, and though he’s never required to work, he and Sammy volunteer as extra hands. 

“Good,” Jimmy says, looking genuinely pleased.

“See you there!” Claire calls out. As they walk away, she says in a loud-whisper, “Is Mister Dean Uncle Cas’ boyfriend?”

Dean perches on his toes, waiting for Jimmy’s response. He didn’t think Claire had been paying attention, but he of all people should know that kids pick up on more than adults give them credit for. 

“Uncle Cas certainly hopes so,” Jimmy mumbles. Dean smiles involuntarily, a flurry of butterflies in his stomach and he heads back in the direction of his office.

***

For Dean, the best part of working in a magic library isn’t the kids (adorable), his coworkers (awesome), or the books (when does he have time to read, anyway?).

It’s the magic.

Jo demonstrates this point at the picnic. It’s a huge affair, with the lawn of the library extended four times its normal size. The space is divided into quadrants, themed and elaborately decorated, with picnic blankets and tables and stacks of old books to peruse. There’s an elaborate scene recreated from _ Alice in Wonderland, _ where glowing mushrooms and holographic, cheshire cats are suspended in midair. Dean knows to be wary of the little potion bottles, even though the idea of experiencing liquid roast turkey and buttered toast seems worth the risk of ending up ten inches tall. For the younger kids, there’s a whole section dedication to _ Harold and the Purple Crayon, _ and the various shades of violet Dean spots coming off that corner makes his eyes cross. Then there’s an elaborate _ Harry Potter _ setup, and even though J.K. Rowling’s concept of magic is way off, Dean wants to bury himself in one too many butterbeers. Last, for the adults, there’s a snooty section practically handcrafted for Sammy. It’s like something right out of a gothic novel—constantly raining, roads lit by dim lanterns, a raven flying around and squawking like some Edgar-Allen-Poe-infused nightmare. 

There’s really a place for everyone, and Dean thinks it’s the most impressive magic he’s seen in a long time. 

That’s about the only thought he has, of course, for the first two hours. Jo has him and Sam running to and from the interior library, her house, her office, the car…anything that can’t be delivered through magic, they’re the official errand boys. Dean’s more than happy to oblige—he doesn’t get to take his ‘67 Impala out on enough runs these days. Plus, the busier he stays, the less time he has to freak out about running into Castiel. 

Which he definitely _ is _ freaking out about. Secretly.

“So, how’s work?” Sam asks him, toting an oversized cardboard box as they enter purple-crayon-hell. Dean recognizes at least half of the kids, though, and he grins at the more outgoing ones who are waving in his direction. 

“Good,” Dean says briskly, casting a quick hover charm to lift his boxes. Everybody thinks Sammy’s the genius of the family, and hell, it’s definitely true. But Dean’s a big believer in working smarter, not harder.

“Charlie said you’re actually taking lunch breaks, so that’s good,” Sam comments offhandedly, and Dean narrows his eyes. 

“You gettin’ intel on me from my friends is creepy,” he complains.

“Hey, they’re my friends too,” Sam argues. “And you never tell me anything, so I have to get creative.”

“I tell you stuff,” Dean defends stiffly, though he supposes he has been a little less forthcoming in the past year. Getting the promotion to director had been a whirlwind, and he’s not quite sure he’s caught his breath. “There’s nothing to tell. I work, I drink, I read, I hang out with you. End of story.”

“He cancels plans with me,” booms a gruff voice behind them. Benny adjusts his cap, giving Dean a lopsided smile. 

“Yeah, yeah,” Dean says dimly, looking down. For a split-second, he’d been so sure that all he needed was to drop by a bar and pick someone up, making Benny his natural wingman. But then Jimmy had come into the library, and he had talked to Cas on the phone, and everything had sorta spiraled out of control. Before he knew it, a week had passed and Dean had still been pining after a stranger. He feels bad for canceling on Benny, but he wouldn’t feel right involving someone else when he’s captivated by Castiel.

“Never known Dean Winchester to turn down a drink,” Benny adds, his tone teasing. 

Sam raises his eyebrows. “Me either. What’s up with that?” 

“Nags, both of you,” Dean says dramatically, dropping his load of boxes off at a food truck. They’re in a liminal space where they can see most of the thresholds into the four literature-themed picnic spots, and Dean enjoys watching all the families and couples and friends rushing to and from, pure excitement on their faces. “There’s nothing—”

Words fall from his lips as he sees the whip of familiar trenchcoat, a mop of brown hair and a tall frame walking through into the moody poet section. _ Of course. _This means Castiel is here—he’s actually here—and Dean’s struck with an onslaught of nerves. Both of his interactions with the guy had been filled with mystery and intrigue, but if they have the opportunity to get to know each other, will everything begin to fade? Should Dean just hit it and quit it instead, before the hottest dude on the planet figures out he’s boring as hell?

“Dean,” Sam says, amused, and by his tone of voice Dean knows it’s not for the first time. Sam reaches for his shoulder, and Dean wants to flinch—his brother’s empathetic magic is heightened with touch, and the connection only grows with time, so he’s practically a mind-reader where his family is concerned. 

“Dude,” Dean protests, shrugging him off. Sam just looks at him, his mouth gaping open. “What?”

“Who’s your crush?” Sam asks, the perceptive little shit that he is. Dean grimaces. 

“I dunno what you’re talking about,” he mutters, though it’s futile. Sam’s already gotten his number. 

“That why you cancelled on me, brother?” Benny asks, nudging his elbow. “Tell me who it is—I’ll sweet talk ‘em for ya.”

Dean snorts, shaking his head. “I bet you will.” He adjusts his favorite _ Fahrenheit 451 _ t-shirt (a black and red graphic with “451ºF” over flames) wondering if he should’ve dressed up more for this non-work, work event. These are his least hole-ridden pair of weekend jeans, and his boots are only a little scuffed, but…can he really walk up to someone like Castiel like this?

“Seriously, Dean?” Sam says, staring at him as he fidgets. He starts laughing and Dean—checking to make sure none of his kiddos are closeby—shoots him the bird. “Just go already.”

“What about the boxes?”

“They’re right where they’re supposed to be,” Benny points out. 

“Yeah, but—”

“_ Go _,” Sam says firmly. Dean rubs a hand across his face, exhales some of his nervous energy, and takes a step forward. 

Until he hears a scream. 

Dean’s always been good in a crisis, and he runs in the direction of the commotion, Sam and Benny hot on his heels. There’s a middle-aged woman in the grass, clutching a leather bound book. Dean’s had the right training for this, and when someone reaches down to grab the book from her, he shoves a hand onto the guy’s chest. He kicks the book instead, knowing a cursed object requires contact with human skin.

“Nobody touch that!” he shouts, turning back to his brother and Benny. “Get a containment box, Benny, and get your guys here to control the crowd. Sam, call an ambulance?”

Sam doesn’t need to be told twice—the phone’s already pressed to his ear. A large crowd has gathered now, but Benny’s crew shows up promptly, clearing a circle as they wait for medical help. The woman is knocked out now, her forehead covered in a cold sweat, and Dean puts a hand on her forehead and can feel the energy draining her. Sam ducks down beside him, his face grim. 

“We can’t wait,” Dean mumbles, hand traveling around her clammy skin.

“You can’t extract it,” Sam says, a little bit of panic in his voice. “We don’t even know what it is. Is it a curse? A hex?”

“We can’t let someone die,” Dean hisses, hands in fists. 

“No, but…” Sam stares between then. “You do this, you’ll be the one who ends up dead. That’s not an option, Dean.”

“Well…” Dean ducks his head down, thinking. “Then we do it together. Family bonds and all that shit. We’re stronger together.”

Sam frowns, the wheels of his mind turning before he looks up to the crowd. “Does anyone have an expendable object—something they don’t mind losing?”

There’s a few beats of silence, and then a little boy drops a green toy soldier into Sam’s outstretched palm. It’s the same type of soldier Sam used to play with as a kid, in the back of the Impala, and Dean knows without a second thought that they’re doing the right thing by saving this woman. Sam grasps the toy in his left hand, and Dean nods, both outstretching their hands onto the woman’s upper chest. The effects of the…_ the jinx _ …are immediate. He gasps, his veins at once icy and burning hot, the pain sharp and throbbing. His only clear thought, beyond _ holy shit this fucking hurts, _ is that he can’t believe he’s put Sammy is such a compromising position. He wonders if it’s worse for Sam, because he’s an empath. Is he feeling his own pain, _ and _ the woman’s pain…? Fuck, Dean must be the dumbest son of a bitch alive. 

“Sammy,” he croaks, daring to crack an eye open. Around them, the crowd has tripled—he sees Jo, Charlie, even Missouri watching them with worried expressions. “You okay?”

“Yeah,” Sam says unconvincingly. “Ready to…transfer?”

One toy soldier. One tiny, about to become a cursed object, toy soldier. Just like the book, it’ll have to be contained and disposed of…if they succeed. The soldier falls into Dean’s hand, Sam’s covering the other end, and they pour every ounce of dark magic from their insides. Dean grits his teeth, sweat rolling off his forehead, and Sam growls with concentration. Dean grips the plastic piece with every ounce of energy he’s got, until finally, he feels empty. Empty—the absence of pain. That’s a good sign.

Sam throws the toy a foot away, into an empty patch of grass. Benny reaches down—now dressed properly in magic-blocking, elbow-length gloves—and locks it away with the book. From the ground, Dean can hear the woman gasping for breath—she’s alive. She’s alive and this whole thing was worth it. He slumps against the asphalt, feeling dizzy and a little sick. 

Their friends bring Sam and Dean to their feet, asking a million questions that Dean feels too woozy to answer. Of course he wants to know how a cursed book ended up at the library—and how it got past all their security charms. It’s an unsettling question he’ll have to think about later. Sam does a good job of recounting the situation to Charlie and Jo, and by the time he’s finished, the emergency medical team has taken over. They approach Sam and Dean, but they both wave them off steadily, requesting that they focus on the woman instead. They move a few yards away from the crowd, needing some air. 

“That was reckless, Winchester,” Jo says finally, shaking her head and punching Dean in the arm. 

“Ow,” he grumbles. “Kick a man while he’s down, why don’t you?”

“She’s right. I know we’ve got magic or whatever, but you’re not superheroes.” Charlie tilts her head thoughtfully, her face breaking out into a grin. “Though, I gotta say, that was kickass.” 

Dean chuckles, rubbing his forehead. “Well, kickass or not, I need some lunch or I’m gonna keel over.”

“I think I can help with that,” comes a deep, rumbling voice. Dean whips his head around—_ Castiel. _Jesus Christ he looks good, all wind-blown and worried, trenchcoat folded in his suit-jacketed forearm. “Hello, Dean.”

“Hey, Cas,” Dean says, mouth suddenly parched. “Uh, yeah, let’s…let’s do that.”

Castiel smiles brightly at Dean, as if he’s giving him the key to the Emerald City. 

“Are you okay?” he asks, genuine concerned creased on his forehead. “Can I get you anything else?”

“I’m good. Lunch’ll do it,” Dean says, enjoying all the attention but a little flustered by it. Castiel nods, eyes sweeping Dean’s friends politely since most of them had their backs turned until now. He looks like he’s on the verge of introducing himself, when—

“Sam?” Castiel asks, head tilting. “Sam Winchester?”

“Castiel?” Sam looks floored, excited, and Dean hates the wave of confusion that passes through him. 

“You know each other?” he asks, trying not to make it sound like an accusation. 

“_ You _know each other?” Sam parrots, waving a hand between Dean and Cas. “How?”

“Uh…” Dean scratches the back of his neck, staring down at his shoes.

“Oh man,” Charlie says, rubbing her hands together and grinning. “This is gonna be fun.”  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, the Sam and Dean bit was just me being sentimental about the season 15 premiere tomorrow. *sobs* I love those boys.


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Evening, friends! I seem to keep unintentionally updating on Thursdays, which is great for those of you watching season 15 live. I hope this brings a little sweetness to your day. <3

There’s no other way to put it. 

Today is totally off the rails.

From the busyness of picnic setup, to the dangerous presence of a cursed object, and now, the news that Dean’s crush and brother have some sort of…history.

Well, it’s enough to make Dean want to do this whole stupid day over again. 

“You two—I mean, you  _ haven’t _ —” He looks between them, dread filling his stomach. It’s true that Sam is more or less straight, but Dean always thought he had been weirdly close with his college roommate, Brady. Plus he’s the one who championed Dean coming out a few years back, becoming a self-proclaimed ally for the LGBTQ community.  _ What if Sam’s actually more than an ally? _ A list of “what ifs” pops to Dean’s mind, a combo of things between Sam and Castiel and none of them are good. There’s a difference between being brothers and  _ eskimo brothers _ , he thinks, and he’s really not sure he could pursue this thing if—

“Of course we haven’t,” Castiel says reassuringly, somehow deciphering Dean’s vague implication. Charlie and Jo are fascinated by this whole exchange, but Sam just looks confused. Fair enough, Dean supposes in the back of his mind, since his brother doesn’t know that Dean and Castiel have been flirting up a storm lately. “We met at Stanford. Sam was a student in my class.”

“Your…class?” Dean feels a little dizzy, like he’s on the verge of whiplash. Has he stumbled his way into liking one of Sam’s old professors? What are the odds?

“Not ‘my’ class, exactly. I was the TA,” Castiel explains, briefly looking at Dean before returning his gaze to Sam again.

“Yeah, man, that class was awesome,” Sam says genuinely. He examines Cas’ outfit with a quick gaze. “I should’ve recognized your trenchcoat, especially when Dean…”

“When Dean, what?” Castiel crosses his arms, smirking and looking at Dean smugly. Great, now Mr. Mysterious knows that Dean pointed him out to his brother. He looks away, cheeks running hot. He’s not really in the mood for their usual banter, not right now, and he can’t quite figure out why.

“Nothing,” Sam says dismissively, changing the subject. “How’d you end up here?”

“My research. I needed the resources of the library to finish out my PhD, and my family happens to live nearby,” Castiel explains, and Sam nods steadily. “What about you? How’d you end up in Kansas?”

Dean takes a step back from the group, not really wanting to hear Sam recount how he graduated with his bachelor’s at Stanford, then gave up on a fancy, ivy-league law school just to find himself at the University of Kansas. It’s not that Dean isn’t grateful to have his brother back home, especially since they’re all each other has. But Dean never wanted Sam to sacrifice his dreams, to compromise on something that made him happy just for Dean’s sake. It’s one of those tender topics they don’t discuss much, and he feels irritated at himself for thinking about it. He walks over to a nearby concession stand to grab a drink, but not before he’s hit with a sudden pounding headache. Jesus, he feels terrible… Sweaty, dizzy, chilly, nauseous—

“That’ll be two-fifty,” the girl on the other side of the table says, handing him a bottled soda over her cash box. Dean slides his hand into his back pocket, searching for his wallet, but he’s woozy and stumbles into someone behind him. 

“Sorry,” he mumbles, struggling to stay on his feet—a newly impossible task. 

“Are you okay?” The voice behind him is familiar and warm, and Castiel’s hand comes up cautiously to the center of Dean’s back, holding him upright. Dean opens his mouth to say something when he falls against Castiel’s chest. He collapses—limbs tired, head foggy. He feels his body become weightless, hears commotion all around him as his eyelids flutter up at the sky. 

And then, without warning, his vision is engulfed by darkness.

***

He returns to consciousness with a groan, the effort of opening his eyes too heavy. He feels like his body weighs a million pounds, pushing him into the mattress.

Wait…the mattress?

“‘ere’m I?” Dean mumbles, coughing a little. His throat is uncomfortably dry. 

“You’re at the hospital,” someone says, a woman, tone light but matter-of-fact. Jo, maybe?

“But you’re fine,” Sam says, and Dean feels a hand on his shoulder, a reassuring pressure. Dean grunts, severely doubting that he’s A-okay if he’s in the hospital. Still, he feels better than he did last time he’d been awake. He opens his eyes warily, blinking away the wateriness as he adjusts to the fluorescent lightning. His assumptions had been correct—Sam and Jo are on one side of the bed, leaned over close. On the other side, there’s Charlie and…Castiel. 

“Cas,” he says, unable to hide his surprise. “You’re here.”

“Hello, Dean,” Castiel says simply, his voice warm. 

“I’m here, too,” Charlie chirps, with a sarcastic wave. 

“Yeah, I know, Char. But I didn’t faint on you,” Dean points out, shuffling his lower-half so he can sit up properly. His gaze returns to Castiel, cheeks warm with embarrassment. “Sorry about that.”

“Think nothing of it.” Castiel hands are restless on his thighs, folding and unfolding in his lap. Dean wonders if there’s more to what this guy is thinking, but he can’t exactly pick Castiel’s brain with a room full of people. 

“So, uh,” he turns back to Sam, intent on getting some answers, “guessing it was the cursed object?”

“I think so. They won’t confirm anything without the doctor present,” Sam says with an eye roll, “but they stabilized you. The nurses took some blood, and then you were in and out for almost an hour.”

“Jesus,” Dean mumbles, staring down at his scratchy hospital gown. He doesn’t want to admit it, but he’s self-conscious as hell about this whole thing. Why did drawing in the dark magic affect him more than Sam? Shouldn’t he be strong enough to withstand it?

“If I had to guess, I’d say they’ll give you an antidote of some kind,” Sam continues, obviously not privy to Dean’s internal shame spiral. “Maybe some activated charcoal? You know that digesting it absorbs sixty percent of poisons, so maybe it could have an impact on curses, too?”

“An excellent guess,” comes a deep voice, belonging to a tall brown-haired man in a doctor’s coat entering the room. Dean has to blink a few times to make sure he’s not imagining things. 

“Jimmy?” Dean’s voice sounds small and disgruntled, and he clears his throat. “Why aren’t you at the picnic?”

“So you’re not surprised he’s a doctor, you’re surprised he’s not at the picnic…?” Castiel’s voice is playful and Dean gives him a little eye roll. The other three have matching puzzled expressions, so he adds, “Everyone, this is my twin brother, Jimmy. Dean met him at the library last week. This is Sam, Dean’s brother, and Jo and Charlie, his coworkers.”

“And best friends,” Charlie adds.

“Nice to meet you all. To answer your question, Dean, I was on-call.” Jimmy’s hands go up in a “what can you do” gesture. His eyes settle onto Castiel, and wow, being around them both in the same room is disorientating as fuck. Or maybe that’s just Dean’s fever. “My brother was supposed to show Claire and Amelia a good time this afternoon. Instead, he brought in more work for me.” Jimmy grins, putting a casual hand on Dean’s shoulder. “No offense.”

“None taken, I guess,” Dean grunts. 

“So, is Dean okay? Was he cursed or not?” Jo asks impatiently, inserting herself into the conversation with a firm tone.

“He was,” Jimmy says evenly. “Let me examine my patient, then I’ll explain.” 

If Dean didn’t feel so crummy, he might be impressed with Jimmy’s display of magic for the next few minutes. It’s obvious that his natural forte is healing, because he takes Dean’s temperature just by placing a flat hand on his forehead and mumbling, “Ninety-nine point seven. You have a low-grade fever.” His hands move quickly then, sliding on either side of Dean’s skull, and he whispers an incantation under his breath. Dean feels cool and clear-headed instantly.

“Wow,” Dean mutters, scrubbing a hand over his face. “Neat trick.”

“I’ve been practicing medical magic for a long time,” Jimmy says, continuing to check Dean’s vitals. Once his eyesight is checked, his lymph nodes prodded, and his blood pressure taken, he asks Dean to explain the situation in his own words. Dean recounts the story, starting with the scream—pointedly not mentioning that he had been on the verge of following Castiel into the moody poet section of the picnic like a creepy stalker—and ends his version of events with passing out unexpectedly.

“So,” Sam says, on the edge of his seat and looking up at the doctor, “what does it all mean?”

“It means that you’re both very brave, and I want you to get a checkup before you leave, Sam,” Jimmy says somberly. “Though you would be showing symptoms at this point, we can’t be too careful. Dark magic is unpredictable, and difficult to eliminate once it’s taken root. For whatever reason, the curse you two touched affected Dean much more severely and entered his bloodstream.”

“‘For whatever reason’?” Dean grumbles, feeling drained again—he wants the world’s biggest cup of coffee. “Sorry, that ain’t gonna cut it, doc. We’re brothers—hell, I’m the  _ older  _ brother. I should be able to handle myself.”

Jimmy frowns, crossing his arms against his chest. Finally, he says, “It isn’t science, Dean, it’s magic. Good magic, dark magic—we’re talking about the unexplainable essence of life.”

“Sure, okay.” Dean exhales, closing his eyes. “Not that I don’t like philosophy, but how about you gimme the cliffnotes version?” From not far away, Castiel chuckles.

“The only thing I can say is that some souls are pure, and some have a higher capacity to hold undesirable magic. You and your brother are a great example of this hypothesis, it seems. That’s just my guess.” Jimmy slides his hands into his pockets, sighing. “As far as treatment goes, I’m prescribing you a powerful antidote. It’s a refined powder mixed with a potion that will treat your other symptoms—fever, nausea, fainting. Without magic, it might take you a week to recover. Luckily for you, we live in the world we live in, and you’ll be back to normal tomorrow.”

Dean absorbs all this information, then chuckles darkly. “Lucky for me? If we didn’t live in a world like this, I wouldn’t have gotten cursed in the first place.”

Jimmy nods sympathetically, tilting his head. “That reminds me, two police officers are waiting in the hall. I told them my patient needed rest, but anyone else who witnessed the run-in with the cursed object—especially you, Sam—should go give them a statement, if you’re willing.”

Jimmy gives Dean some simple instructions for the next day—rest, stay hydrated, take his potion twice a day. Afterwards he chats for a quick moment with Castiel before heading out. A moment later, Sam, Charlie, and Jo are all standing up to leave and talk things over with the police. 

“You’re not going?” Dean mumbles, eyes flashing in Castiel’s direction. 

“All I saw was the aftermath.” The door closes softly, the room still, and Castiel scoots his chair closer to Dean’s bed. Dean hums, prompt Castiel to keep going. “I was hoping I’d see you. Then, when I heard there was an incident…” His elbows are practically on the mattress, hovering nearby. “Who should I find in the middle of it but you?”

Dean blushes, but doesn’t look away. He’s glad to have a moment alone with Castiel, even if he’s wearing a big, pillowy hospital gown. Not exactly the ideal time to put the moves on Cas. “S’nothing.”

“Your heroics are not nothing,” Castiel replies firmly. 

“Says the guy who carried me bridal-style after I fainted,” Dean jokes, having vague memories of feeling weightless and suspended in air. Castiel’s gaze softens, his hand traveling down to stroke the scratchy bedsheet covering Dean’s thigh. He wants to hold Dean’s hand, it’s obvious, but he’s resisting.

“That was more of a privilege than a chore,” Castiel says, voice surging with honesty. Without thinking too much about it, Dean covers the other man’s hand with his own. Castiel licks his lips, smiling and entwining their fingers together. “The more time I spend with you, Dean Winchester, the more I like you.”

Dean inhales, trying to remember the last time he’s felt so—flustered, hopeful, excited. 

“Right back atcha, Professor…” He blinks, then looks down, laughing quietly. “I just realized I don’t know your last name. Jimmy didn’t say it when he came in.”

Castiel chuckles with him before saying, “Novak. Castiel Novak.”

“Castiel Novak,” Dean repeats, giving his hand another squeeze. He flutters his eyelashes sleepily, stifling a yawn. “Can I ask you a favor?”

“Of course,” Castiel answers, sitting up straighter.

“Could you grab me an extra pillow, a glass of water, and…” Dean exhales, pushing himself forward. He very nearly died today—this is no time to be meek. “Your phone number.”

Castiel beams at him. “I think I can arrange that.”

***

Being ordered to rest is really just an excuse to read, especially once he's discharged from the hospital. Dean spends the rest of Saturday and Sunday finishing his Danielle Steel novel, taking naps, and staring at Castiel’s name in his contact list. He has Cas’ phone number, not the other way around, so the ball is officially in Dean’s court. What’s he supposed to do next? Play it cool? Text him immediately? Ask him on a date?

“Think you’ve read too much Danielle Steel,” Sam comments offhandedly, coming back from Dean’s kitchen and handing him a bowl of something grainy and green. Gross. 

Dean sits up on the couch, sighing and withdrawing the curled fist he’d been leaning on. “What?”

“You’re literally staring at the window, watching it rain, and thinking about Castiel.” Sam takes a spot on the other end of the couch, tucking his own bowl of dinner under his chin. It’s been nice to have his brother to hang out with this weekend, but he’ll have to go back to his own apartment soon. Well, nice when he isn’t teasing Dean for his choices in men.

“Was not,” Dean grumbles. “‘Sides, you can’t make fun of me right now. I was  _ cursed _ .”

Sam snorts, taking a large bite. “You’re gonna milk that for a while, aren’t you?”

“Maybe.” Dean shoots a playful glare at his direction. “Bitch.”

“Jerk.”

They settle into a comfortable silence. While they dig in (Dean pointedly eating  _ around  _ the leafy greens) he turns on a marathon of  _ Dr. Sexy _ . He takes his prescribed potion, washing it down with a large glass of water, and updates Missouri on his progress. She wants him to take time off this week, but the medicine is doing its job, and if Dean doesn’t come in tomorrow he’ll be super behind all week. Plus, tomorrow is the monthly book exchange, and he feels territorial at the thought of someone else being paired up with his anonymous friend. He’s been thinking all day about what book to send next. 

It’s later when he catches a contemplative look on Sam’s face, and he stares at him in his peripheral vision, trying to decipher his mood. Finally, he asks, “What’s up?”

“Huh?” Sam runs a hand through his (much too long) hair, apparently snapped out of some deep thought. “Nothing.”

“Uh-huh,” Dean says skeptically. He reaches towards the coffee table, muting the TV. “Spit it out, man.”

Sam sighs, fidgeting with the rolled-up sleeves of his flannel. “I was just thinking about what Castiel’s brother said. Jimmy?” Dean nods, confirming the name, and Sam keeps going. “About my…soul being able to withstand dark magic.”

“We don’t know that,” Dean argues. “That was just his guess.”

“Still. Wouldn’t it suck to hear that you’ve got something weird inside of you? Something you can’t see or fix?”

“Yeah,” Dean concedes, stretching his arm over the back of the couch. He thinks back to something his dad had told him once, something that happened when Sam was just a baby… But no, that’s not important. Nothing could tarnish Sam’s soul—he’s one of the best people in the whole damn world. “So, say he’s right. Say your soul  _ can _ withstand more darkness. How is that a bad thing?”

“Uh, I can name a few reasons,” Sam replies sarcastically. 

“It’s not like you’re gonna turn evil. You’re an empath, man. Your powers are rooted in something good.” 

Sam’s eyebrows shoot up, considering Dean’s argument. “I guess,” he says evenly. “I just don’t want to be a freak.”

“Man, we’re wizards. We’re already freaks.” 

Dean hits him on the shoulder, just enough to jostle him, and Sam gives him a small smile. Not everyone has magic, after all—plenty of regular people are walking around, living normal lives in Lawrence. No one really knows what makes someone gravitate towards magic, and even more specifically, where their specialization comes from. But at this point, it’s like being a redhead or left-handed—a little unusual, but not totally unheard of. It took a long time for there to be peace between the magic users and the humans, and Dean’s glad he wasn’t a part of that historical movement. There was  _ a lot  _ of burning at the stake.

“So, uh…” Dean scratches the back of his neck. “Can I ask you a question?”

“You just did,” Sam replies, every bit the annoying little brother Dean knows him to be. 

“Ha, ha.” Dean stares down at the carpet, heart racing a little. “Tell me about Castiel?”

“Wow, Dean, you’ve got it bad,” Sam says, shaking his head and chuckling. “What do you wanna know?”

“Is it weird if I say ‘everything’?”

“No, but it only makes my accusation even more true.” Sam stretches his back, fluffing the pillows behind him. “Well, he’s super smart. He had a boyfriend back at Stanford, but evidently they’ve broken up if he’s got heart-eyes for you.”

“Boyfriend?” Dean asks, trying to sound as casual as possible. 

“Yeah, this British guy. Sometimes they would walk around campus.” Sam shrugs, likely not finding this conversation to be as fascinating as Dean. “Honestly, I barely know him outside of class.”

Dean bites his lip, trying to hide his disappointment. “What class?”

“What?”

“What class was he your TA for, or whatever?”

“Sex—” Sam pauses, his eyes turning a little wide. “Actually, if you’re serious about him… I’ll let him tell you that.”

“What the hell?” Dean is perched on the edge of the couch, his expression combative. “No way, dude. You can’t say the word ‘sex’ and then freeze up on me!” 

“I don’t want to tell you the wrong thing,” Sam says in a rush. “I heard…well, I heard rumors about him, okay? But I don’t know if they’re true and I don’t want to ruin things for you before they’ve even started."

Dean crosses his arms against his chest, suddenly sullen. “Fine,” he bites out, grabbing his phone and deciding then and there to get some answers.

Dean 7:52 PM >> ** wanna grab a drink with me tomorrow night?**

It’s not exactly a charming way to ask someone out, but it is direct, and Dean wants to get it out there before he loses his nerve. Plus, he always ends up being coy and shy around Castiel, and he wants to prove that he can be forward too.

Castiel 7:53 PM <<  **Dean?**

_ You idiot.  _ He hadn’t even introduced himself or said hey or anything. Is this his first time texting another human?! Before he can fumble through an explanation, Castiel sends him another message.

Castiel 7:53 PM <<  **If this is Dean, then yes. If it’s anyone else, I’ll have to decline, sorry.**

Dean chuckles, his smile wide. Well, maybe this conversation can be salvaged. 

Dean 7:54 PM >> ** yep, it’s me. lucky for you. you definitely would’ve hurt some poor guy’s feelings if not**

Castiel 7:55 PM <<  **Oh? Was it foolish of me to turn down this hypothetical guy? **

Dean 7:55 PM >> ** yeah. you never know, this mystery guy could be much cuter than me**

Castiel 7:56 PM <<  **Impossible.**

Dean huffs a laugh, blushing, his stomach full of nervous energy because— _ tomorrow.  _ It's really happening.  He’s never looked forward to a first date quite this much, especially if he’s going to figure out what exactly Sam is trying to keep secret from him. What could a cool, confident guy like Cas have to hide?


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> How's everyone doing? Cuddled up on your couch? Reading in bed? Still reeling from tonight's episode? (Don't spoil me—I haven't watched yet!) 
> 
> Whatever you're up to, I hope this chapter makes you smile!

The next day Dean is nursing the world’s largest cup of coffee and wandering through the stacks. He’s in the classics’ section, and though he read a lot of these in college—getting his degree in library science included some literature analysis—he tends to read more modern stuff for fun. But, he thinks with a wicked grin, I’m _ not _the one reading this. 

Dean sets his mug down and thumbs through the book he’s sending, and snorts when he turns right to a detailed section on whales. God, at the time he hated that his professor wouldn’t let them skip these boring ass chapters:

_ "This whale, among the English of old vaguely known as the Trumpa whale, and the Physeter whale, and the Anvil Headed whale, is the present Cachalot of the French, and the Pottsfich of the Germans, and the Macrocephalus of the Long Words. He is, without doubt, the largest inhabitant of the globe; the most formidable of all whales to encounter; the most majestic in aspect; and lastly, by far the most valuable in commerce; he being the only creature from which that valuable substance, spermaceti, is obtained." _

“You sorry son of a bitch,” he whispers with a grin. 

He carries the nearly six-hundred-page novel back up to his office, chuckling at himself for the torturous new selection he’s forcing someone to read. Then he sits at his desk and writes a note to slip inside. He pauses, wondering if he’s been too inappropriate for a workplace book exchange, but something about this mystery person makes him think they’ll appreciate his sense of humor. Plus, they’ve already sent each other smutty romance novels, so what’d he have to lose? 

_ Continuing our theme from last month, here’s another dick for your reading pleasure. Moby Dick, that is. (Also, if you didn’t know this novel is 209,000 words about sexual frustration and whale anatomy. Interpret that as you will.) _

_ Danielle Steel was surprisingly not the worst thing I’ve ever read. That trophy goes to Fifty Shades…sorry buddy. _

He laughs to himself again, shaking his head and securing the note between two empty pages in the front matter. Then he taps the book three times, the incredibly thick paperback rising into the air before disappearing altogether.

***

He has lunch in Charlie’s office. Since she’s head of Technology Services, her desk is covered in no less than three ultrawide monitors. Sometimes they watch videos together as they eat and chat, and they’re in the middle of a youtuber reviewing the infamous _ All Saints' Day _ (Dean has gone as Hatchet Man for Halloween not once, not twice, but three times) when Charlie asks, “What’s up tonight? Wanna go to the Roadhouse?”

Dean freezes, his shoulders stiff. Tonight is his date with Castiel, but he’s trying to keep it on the downlow. He doesn’t think everyone teasing him is gonna make him any less nervous. “Roadhouse is our Friday thing,” he says instead. 

“Yeah, but Jo said Ellen wants to talk to you and Sam,” Charlie points out, and Dean looks up, surprised. 

“What about?”

Charlie shrugs, mumbling, “No clue.”

Dean had missed a call from Ellen yesterday, but he’d been in a potion-induced nap. When he woke up, he figured she was just calling to see how he was feeling, and had forgotten to call her back. “I’ll call her later.”

“Or, we could go to the Roadhouse,” Charlie pressures, raising her eyebrows eagerly. 

“I, uh, have plans,” Dean mutters, before raising his voice slightly and saying, “Why are you so obsessed with the Roadhouse right now?”

Charlie looks down at her lunch, apparently starving at the sudden. “No reason.”

Dean can sniff out_ that _ bullshit from a mile away, but the minute he puts down his sandwich with the intention of prying, a large and thick black book is swinging against Charlie’s closed office door. 

“Gotta love exchange day,” Charlie says with a laugh. She presses a button under her desk, the door swinging open mechanically. Though his best friend doesn’t have any magic of her own, she’s more than made up for it with her technological advancements. Plus, the library itself has enough innate magic that even non-magic users can sometimes do unexplainable things within its walls. 

The minute the doorway is open, the book zips through the threshold and lands on Dean’s empty lap. It’s a book called _ House of Leaves, _and before he even has a chance to glance through it, a message appears in the air:

_ Dear anonymous book “friend”: _

_ Thank you for the gratuitous selection for this month’s reading. You are a king (or queen) among men. Speaking of, what a delightful piece of literature you gifted me with this past month. Allow me to share my favorite recurring image from Anastasia Steele: _

_ "My inner goddess is beside herself, hopping from foot to foot." _

_ "My inner goddess fist pumps the air above her chaise lounge." _

_ "My inner goddess stirs from her five-day sulk." _

_ "My inner goddess is doing the merengue with some salsa moves." _

_ "I flush. My inner goddess is down on bended knee with her hands clasped in supplication begging me." _

_ As such, my inner goddess recommended that I share this book with you next. After the novel you tasked me with, I figured it would be advisable to flex your cognitive abilities more in your pursuit of grasping this story. After this trainwreck of failed writing, failed plot, and failed characterization, Moby Dick will be a welcomed reprieve, I assure you. _

“Damn, they’re _ funny_,” Charlie comments, reading the suspended words and laughing at Dean’s direction. 

“Okay, right? Even though we send each other terrible books on purpose, I sorta won the penpal lottery.” He flips through the book he’ll be reading this month, and it’s some of the weirdest shit he’s ever seen—there are words upside down, backwards, whole pages with just one line, footnotes that go on for ten pages, appendices in the back with photos and poetry.

“I’ve heard of that book! It’s a cult classic. Weird as hell, too,” Charlie says, her voice full of excitement. “Your girl must be a hipster or something.”

“Girl?” Dean wrinkles his forehead, confused. 

“Uh, yeah. How else would you read her ‘as such, my inner goddess’ comment?”

Dean frowns, wishing the message would reappear, but that’s the problem with magical messages—every sentence has already dissolved, like wisps of smoke into the air.

“Why do you look so disappointed?” Charlie asks, taking a large sip from her canned soda. 

“I guess I always thought it was a dude,” Dean answers with a shrug, feeling a little uncomfortable with that fact. Why had he been envision some cute and quirky guy reading _ Fifty Shades _with an incredulous expression? Just because they have the same sense of humor? That’s pretty damn closed-minded of him, and Charlie looks like she wants to call him out on it, but sees his chagrined expression and seems to think better of it. 

“So, your plans tonight,” she says casually, “wouldn’t happen to involve one hot and dreamy twin, would they?”

Dean nearly chokes on the potato chip lodged in his throat. He reaches for his drink, coughing. “Maybe,” he says, once his windpipes are working properly again. 

“Ooh! Exciting!”

“Just, uh, keep it on the DL.”

She holds up three fingers dutifully. “I swear on the Girl Scout Law.”

“Char, pretty sure you can’t swear on the ‘Girl Scout Law’ if you were never a girl scout,” he points out, as she lowers her hand looking disappointed.

“Well, what if you funneled money once from some undesirable companies, and made a very large donation to a nonprofit that encourages the leadership development skills of young girls? Enough to get the Girl Scouts of America out of debt?” She takes a long, lingering sip of her drink. “Just hypothetically.”

Dean raises his eyebrows, torn between being intimidated and impressed. Charlie had been computer hacking since high school, and while he’s endlessly curious, the less he knows the better. “You’re kinda terrifying, you know that?”

“Just because I don’t have magic doesn’t mean I don’t _ work _ magic,” she jokes, winking as she balls up her the wrappers of her lunch. Dean nods in complete agreement—he would be more scared of Charlie than most of his fellow wizards—and he wonders suddenly what he’ll find out about Castiel tonight. Does he have magic? Was he teaching a magic course at Stanford or a more traditional, academic one? And what, for the love of god, does any of that have to do with the one word Sam let slip?

_ Sex. _

***

Around six that night, still in his office, Dean starts to freshen up for his date. He wishes he had the time to go home and get ready properly, but that’s in the opposite direction, and he doesn’t want to be late. He keeps on his same jeans and boots, but slips on a fresh button-up, then goes in the public restroom to brush his teeth and check his hair. The only employees left now are the circulation specialists who check out people’s books, and the tables and stacks are pretty empty by this point in the day. There aren’t any events this evening, so he shuffles down the steps, the quiet hallways unsettling him today. Most of his bravado from last night has evaporated, and now that he’s tasked with the reality of seeing Castiel again without any excuses—work, family and friends, dangerous cursed objects floating around the library—Dean’s not sure he can handle being one-on-one with him. 

He had no idea where to suggest to meet up for their first date—usually he just ends up getting horizontal with the randos he meets at the Roadhouse, no fancy first date needed—but Cas had mentioned trying out this new rooftop bar downtown. Since it’s early spring and there’s surprisingly no rain in the forecast, Dean had agreed, though he tends to shy away from trendy bars. He may be a librarian, but he’s not some freaking hipster—give him a sticky bar floor and a shot of cheap whiskey any day. Since they’re meeting only two blocks from work, he makes great time. He waits at the bar downstairs and shoots Cas a text, explaining where to find him. Castiel is apparently stuck in traffic, and then he’ll have to spend a few minutes finding parking, so Dean has some time to kill.

It’s crowded and the bartender is difficult to get to—another reason why Dean prefers lowkey places—but he eventually orders an El Sol and leans against the bartop, sipping quietly. His mind wanders, thinking that he ought to schedule a meeting with Benny soon. It’s none of his business, really, but he wants to know what the library is doing to figure out how a cursed book ended up at a public picnic. Surely there are some security measures that would’ve alerted them? Is there a way to trace the magic back to its source? Has the woman recovered as quickly as Dean has?

“Penny for your thoughts?” A guy in a gray business suit with a navy tie stands beside Dean. He’s sorta handsome, in a bland sort of sense, but he’s smirking aggressively. There’s something about his gaze that makes Dean squirm. 

“Not sure they’re worth a penny,” he mumbles, hoping he sounds friendly but dismissive. 

“They are when they’re attached to a face that pretty,” the guy answers smoothly, leaning into Dean’s personal space. “Buy you a drink?”

Dean lifts his nearly full beer to eye-level. “Uh, thanks, but I’m good.”

The guy—he oughta use that penny of his to buy himself a clue—puts his hand on Dean’s elbow. “I’m Dick.” 

“I’m meeting someone,” Dean says flatly, resisting the urge to say, _ yep, you are a dick, glad you’re aware. _

“Well, he’s not here,” Dick says, opening his hands wide. “And I am. Why don’t we take advantage of that fact?”

“Buddy…” Dean sighs, pulling out of the man’s grip and taking a step backwards. “You’re a real piece of work.” He turns around, intent on heading towards the opposite end of the bar and away from this fucking creep, when his shoulder collides with someone tall and sturdy and…

“Hello, Dean,” Castiel says warmly, his eyes so blue, they’re practically glowing. He looks so good right now—tan, smiling, confident. Dean’s irritation is replaced immediately with excitement and nerves. 

“Hey, Cas,” he says. “How was traffic?”

“Not terrible. I’ve been here for a minute,” Castiel confesses. His eyes flicker over towards Dick. “I thought about intervening, but I have to admit, it was…fascinating, watching you put that guy in his place.”

Dean’s eyebrows raise, sparing Dick a quick glance—he’s already moved on to easier prey, it seems. “You saw that?”

“I did,” Castiel says with a nod, amusement written all over his face. “It’s the second time I’ve seen someone crash and burn when it comes to you, by the way. Being on a date with you might be the height of my romantic history. Anything after tonight will surely be a downgrade.”

Dean laughs, blushing a little. He’s not sure how Cas always manages to do that—flirt with him in a way that makes him feel special, but also light. “Not if you get a second date,” Dean points out with a grin. “Can I get you a drink?”

Castiel tilts his head. “Let’s head to the roof first? Surely there’s a bar up there? This is a little crowded for me.”

Dean nods with relief, glad they’re on the same page. They walk up a wide staircase, shoulders brushing, and Castiel leads them towards the exterior exit. It’s crowded here too, but a little less so, and Castiel orders a glass of cabernet and they sit side-by-side on an outdoor couch. There’s a roaring firepit in front of them encased in glass, and though it’s still a little too sunny outside to fully appreciate it, Dean thinks he could get used to this. 

Castiel slings his hand behind the couch, fingers almost brushing Dean’s shoulder. “How was work?”

Dean’s not sure how they’ve managed to skip all the awkward, “tell me about yourself” first-date questions, but he reckons it’s ‘cause they’ve been in each other’s orbit since January. Whatever it is, he’s happy to skip the stifled conversations and head right into everyday life. “S’fine. Becky wouldn’t let me do the puppet show, even though I’m totally fine.”

“Becky? One of your employees?”

“Yep. Blonde, intense, squeals a lot,” Dean says a chuckle. 

“Oh, yes. Now I remember her,” Castiel says good-humoredly. His eyes widen a little, though, as something dawns on him. “She wouldn’t let you because you’re still recovering. Of course. I had nearly forgotten because you’re sitting here, looking…”

“Fantastic?” Dean jokes with a wink.

“Exactly,” Castiel says, completely genuine. “How are you feeling?”

“Good. Seriously, I’m good,” Dean says, trying to diminish those worried creases on Castiel’s face. “Your brother is a miracle worker.”

“He is, but never say that to his face. He’s insufferable enough already.” Castiel grins, taking a long sip of his wine. Dean watches the motion, transfixed by the sight of those lips pressed against the glass. His fingers are long and slender, holding the delicate stem with such grace, and Dean could stare at him forever and never look his fill. 

“What are you staring at?” Castiel says, unusually soft for him. At least, for the _ him _that Dean knows. He’s usually all mystery, all bravado. But surely he has a lot more layers that Dean’s yet to discover.

“You’re just…so…” Dean scoffs at his own awkwardness, not sure what to say next, when he spots an eyelashes on Castiel’s cheek. He’s moving before he’s even quite sure what he’s doing, using his free hand to pluck the eyelash from Cas’ cheek. His skin is soft, his five o’clock shadow sculpting a perfectly angular jaw, his eyes such a depth of blue that Dean’s breath is caught in his throat. They stare at each other, heady and significant, and Dean can’t look away. 

“Eyelash,” he explains, staring at Castiel’s lips before forcing his gaze back up. “Sorry.”

Castiel’s expression relaxes, and he exhales steadily. “For what?”

“For, uh…” Dean scratches the back of his neck, wondering at what point tonight he lost all his brain cells. “Jesus, for wanting to jump your bones every two seconds. It’s really fucking distracting.”

The tension between them breaks and Castiel laughs, looking pleased. Dean joins in, easing further into his seat and against Castiel’s arm. 

“That’s nothing for you to apologize for, though I’ll admit, I’m equally tempted,” Castiel says truthfully. “How about this—we’ll talk for the next hour, and then decide what to do next?”

“Deal.” Dean tries not to focus on the fact that _ what to do next _might very well include some awesome Dean-on-Cas action. His stomach flips with nerves. “So, how long you been in Lawrence?” 

“Since January. Actually, the day I met you, I was supposed to be moving into my new apartment. I was called in on uncle duty instead.” Castiel gives him a suggestive smile, the motion lighting up his whole face. “Luckily, it worked out in my favor.” 

“I’ll say,” Dean says, flirting right back and leaning in closer to Castiel’s side. “So, you’re in town for the library?” 

“I am. My field of research is pretty complicated, and it’s nice to have all the resources available as I write my dissertation.” Castiel swirls the wine around deftly, crossing a leg over his thigh, a sliver of ankle showing. Everything this guy does is strangely sexy, and Dean has to tear his eyes away.

“What field is that?” he asks, hoping to sound nonchalant, but he’s praying this gives him some answers. He’s really, really eager to learn whatever it is that Sam wouldn’t tell him. 

“Religious studies, or more specifically, deities in magic,” Cas answers, sitting up straighter as he speaks. “I was fascinated by the thought of god existing, even in a world like ours, where mystical things occur without rhyme or reason. How can we exist in the same space, if god does indeed exist?”

Dean tries to hide his surprise, but wow, this isn’t at all what he was expecting. Definitely not first-date conversation material, but he sort of loves that. “What do you think?”

Castiel tilts his head, looking like his mind is wandering. “I’m a believer with a healthy amount of skepticism.”

Dean huffs, taking a long draw from his beer. “You’n Sammy both. But you probably knew that already.”

Castiel’s forehead wrinkles. “I didn’t. Sam and I didn’t speak much outside of class, though he was definitely one of my favorite students.” 

“Yeah, Sammy’s been a teacher’s pet since day one,” Dean jokes, fidgeting with the label on his beer as the condensation grows. “But, uh, I just figured that kind of thing might come up if you were in his religious studies course?”

“If I was…?” Castiel trails off, eyes distant, before a realization seems to dawn on him. “Oh, I wasn’t a TA in that class.”

Castiel stops abruptly, more closed off than Dean has ever seen him. He wants to keep pushing for answers, but it’s clear that his date is uncomfortable, so he swallows down his curiosity and says, “Is that what you want to be? A teacher?” 

Castiel exhales, looking relieved by the new direction of conversation. “Not at all. Perhaps I could be a college professor if hard-pressed, but my true passion is research.” 

“Oh yeah?” Dean asks, prodding him to continue.

“Yes. I revisit sites of known spiritual significance and seek out the magical residue present there, in the most sacred of spaces. I’ve been to Jeruasalem and Israel a few times, but I’d like to broaden my scope beyond Abrahamic religions. There are several temples in India I want to visit, as well as Mount Sinai in Egypt and the Uluru-Kata Tjuta National Park in Australia. That’s just scratching the surface, of course. If I can get my research funded, I would spend years traveling to the earth’s most holy and mystical places. Perhaps a lifetime.”

“Wow,” Dean breathes, not sure what he’s more attracted to now—Castiel’s body or his huge ass brain. He’s incredibly intelligent, but somehow still down-to-earth and kind underneath layers of self-assurance. On anyone else, this sort of talk would come across as boring or pretentious, but with Castiel it’s fascinating even for Dean, an avid nonbeliever. “That’s like…crazy impressive, Cas.” 

“It’s nothing. It sounds much more interesting than it really is, believe me.” Castiel waves his hand casually, polishing off the last of his wine. “Can I get you another beer?”

Dean nods and Castiel stands, taking long and sure strides towards the rooftop bar. Dean watches him go, thinking how easy it would be to fall for someone like Castiel. He’s got everything going for him—looks, smarts, a kind heart. _ But he could never really be yours, _ a voice says in the back of his head. _ This isn’t the kind of guy to stay in one place long. _

He returns with their drinks and Dean takes a long sip, hoping it’ll buy him some time. “Thanks,” he mutters, taking another sip. 

Castiel scoots closer to him on the couch, his arm properly around Dean now. “So, enough about me.” He eyes Dean curiously, a warm gaze that makes Dean feel special. “Have you always wanted to be a librarian?”

“Definitely not,” Dean says, with a little chuckle. “Bounced around a lot after graduating high school. I was a mechanic for a while, then I thought about opening up my own bar. But after a few years nothing really felt, uh…gratifying enough, I guess?”

Castiel nods along, transfixed on Dean as he speaks. 

“So I started thinking about when I was happiest, and realized it was when I was teaching Sammy to read.” He looks up, wondering if he still has Cas’ attention, and finds that his face has softened into something that looks like…admiration. Like Dean is the most endearing person he’s ever met. It gives Dean the confidence to add, “I’ve always been a bit of a, uh, nerd, so I’ve always read a ton. It just so happened that my family lives in town with the most magical library in the world, so the pieces sorta fell into place after that.”

“It seems to suit you well,” Castiel says easily. “I’ve never seen anyone so captivating while reading a children’s book.”

Dean preens a little from the praise, but aloud he says, “There’s really nothing to it, man.”

Castiel looks doubtful, but he lets the moment pass. “So, you enjoy living in Lawrence?”

Dean shrugs, a little embarrassed at the thought of what someone like Cas must think of him, living in his hometown. “‘S’fine. Probably boring, compared to what your life is like, but it’s got my family and my job. It’s enough for me.” 

“I think it’s a great town,” Castiel says pleasantly, which makes Dean smile. “Jimmy’s very happy here. He’ll probably spend the rest of the year trying to convince me to stay.”

“I don’t blame him,” Dean says, a little too truthfully. He scratches the back of his neck and says, “So, you—you head back to Stanford when again?”

“After Christmas. Then I’ll finish up my final year at Stanford, and start my research,” he says, eyes gleaming with excitement. It’s a great look on him, like _ all _ his looks, but Dean can’t push down the wave of remorse burning in the back of his throat. They’re having an awesome first date, but it’s clear from talking about the future that Cas can’t get into anything longterm. He only has eight months left in Lawrence, and unless they run into each over holidays when he’s visiting his brother, the likelihood of Dean and Cas keeping in touch is slim to none. 

They end up chatting for another hour, exceeding Castiel’s hour-long suggestion by almost double. Their second drinks are empty by the time the sun goes down, and Dean is huddled closer inside Cas’ shoulder, knees touching as they enjoy the warmth of the fire. With Cas everything feels so weirdly…easy, but still exciting, and they eventually walk out of the bar with a nervous sort of flutter in Dean’s stomach. He’s starving, but he’s just as hungry to get his hands on Castiel, and he’s not sure which he’s craving more. 

“Fluency in Enochian comes in handy more often than you would think,” Cas is saying as they’re walking towards the exit. He opens the outer door and Dean steps through first, hands in his pockets. For the past few minutes he’s had difficulty concentrating on anything Castiel is saying, his adrenaline in overdrive as he thinks about what comes next for them. “—which is why I doubt the existence of them, but haven’t discarded the probability altogether.”

“Oh, uh…what?”

“The Angel and Demon tablets,” Castiel replies, looking at Dean inquisitively.

“Right, right,” Dean mumbles, clearly having lost track of the conversation. He’s staring down at the sidewalk, but he feels Castiel’s eyes watching him carefully. 

“Dean,” Castiel says, voice low and steady, “there’s no pressure here, okay? I’ve greatly enjoyed your company tonight, but if you’re having second thoughts about anything, we can just—” 

It all happens too quick for Dean to quite grasp why. One second, they’re just standing and talking. The next moment, Dean is grabbing Castiel by the collar and pushing him up against the building exterior. He stares down at Castiel’s lips, all plump and pink, enjoying the feeling of them pressed together. 

“Definitely not having second thoughts,” he says huskily, honestly, feeling so drawn to this man in ways he can’t quite describe.

And then Castiel surges forward and they’re kissing, at first just a chaste brush of lips, and then Cas’ hand wraps around the back of Dean’s head, weaving into his hair, controlling the motion. He sucks on Dean’s lower lip and Dean moans softly, the feeling of Castiel pressed against him impossibly arousing, the hard planes of his torso and hips making Dean feel dizzy. Things are getting heated quickly, much too quickly, considering that they’re in public. He slips a flicker of tongue into Castiel’s mouth, and the man responds instantly, moaning and tightening his hands in Dean’s hair until it’s tender—

Then he pushes Dean away by placing a hand on his chest, his chest rising and falling, the pupils of his eyes blown wide. They breathe in and out, eyes locked on each other.

“I’m sorry,” Castiel says, breathless, the back of his shirt clinging to the brick behind him. 

“Don’t be…I sorta started this.”

Castiel sighs, rubbing a hand on his temple. “You did, and it was very enjoyable. I’ve been wanting to kiss you for a very long time.”

“Well then,” Dean begins with a smile, “come back to my place? I’ll order a pizza, and we’ll see where the night takes us?”

He takes a step forward to seal the deal with a kiss, but Castiel holds up his hand. 

“There’s something that I need to tell you, Dean.” He looks down at his feet, seeming smaller and more nervous than Dean’s ever seen him. “I should’ve told you earlier, but we were having such a good time, and I didn’t want to…change your opinion of me…”

Dean shifts uncomfortably on his feet, taking a step back. “Whatever it is, Cas, it’s cool. Just tell me.”

Castiel gazes at him, examining him as if he’s trying to solve a puzzle, and then he exhales in a gust. “I have magic, as I’m sure you’ve guessed. But I’m not the best wizard. What you and Sam did this past weekend, with the cursed object? That’s extraordinary strength and control, Dean. You’re very gifted.”

Dean accepts the compliment with a smile, but doesn’t get what any of this has to do with Cas. “Thanks, Cas. But…?”

“I’m gifted in one area,” Castiel says carefully. “It’s a natural aptitude that I usually can't control, but it’s very—potent. At times. Depending on my partner.” 

Dean blinks. _ Potent. _He’s got that clue, plus what Sam let slip. Does that mean…

“Cas,” Dean says, his voice loud and full of astonishment, “are you saying…you…?”

“I’m a natural practicer of erotic mysticism. Sex magic,” Castiel says evenly. He leans off the wall, hand coming to Dean’s waist, leaning close to his ear. “Knowing that, do you still want me to come home with you?”

“I…” Dean shivers, his breath caught in his throat. “I have questions. A lot of ‘em.”

“Of course,” Castiel breathes. “What would you like to know?”

Dean can hardly think right now, can hardly form a word. He’s so overwhelmed—_ fuck_, this guy he’s crazy into is officially guaranteed to be a knockout in bed? Is there any downside to this? 

“I’ll ask them on the drive,” Dean says quickly. “I’m parked a few blocks away. Need a ride? 

Castiel grins, entwining their fingers together. “Lead the way.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Here's a real conversation that just happened between my auction winner and my editor after reading this chapter:
> 
> Lorelei2005: I loved it. Except for the cliffhanger. *sends lots of angry gifs*
> 
> EllenOfOz: I was expecting a cliffhanger so was unsurprised. I _was_ surprised by sex magic, but 100% should not have been, haha.
> 
> Gotta love 'em. <3


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey, friends! Long time no see! Sorry for the delay on this one. I'm right in the middle of finishing up a major [WIP](https://archiveofourown.org/works/18519016/chapters/43889914), so this story has been a labor of love on the side. Speaking of love, there's a very physical type of love coming up in this chapter… (of the smutty variety, hehe) 
> 
> Go forth and enjoy!!

Dean grips the steering wheel, trying to focus on the road but finding himself unbearably distracted. There’s only a few inches of space between him and Castiel, but it might as well be the length of a football field. They’re stalled at a red light, and the Impala’s brakes creak in a way that let’s Dean know he needs to check the brake pads this weekend. He fiddles with the radio, but all he manages to find are commercials. 

“Dean,” Castiel says softly, reaching his hand up to Dean’s fingers, brushing him away to leave the tuning knob alone.

“Nothin’ good on,” Dean grumbles, wondering if any of his tapes are in reaching distance. 

“Is there a reason you’re so…” Castiel takes his time searching for the word. He takes so long, in fact, that Dean wonders if his date is about to come up with something _ really _nasty. That would honestly serve Dean right, he thinks, with how weird he’s been acting during the drive. Somehow, he’s already managed to screw this up. 

“So, _ what_?”

Castiel gives him a playful look, as if Dean has proven his point somehow. “Tense?”

Dean chuckles nervously, easing his foot back on the gas as traffic begins to lurch forward. “Uh, well, I just found out my date is basically a sex god. Gives a guy a little performance anxiety.” He meant it as a joke, but it’s so close to the truth that Dean chokes on his spit and starts coughing. 

“Not a sex god,” Castiel corrects him gently, putting a hand on his back as he works through his coughing fit. Once Dean recovers his faculties, Castiel mutters, “You said you had questions?”

“Uh, yeah.” Dean chews on his lip, realizing they’re less than a mile from his apartment. Shit. He’s running out of time here. “How is it—I mean—how did you, uh, figure it out?”

“I was fifteen,” Castiel says carefully, his hands gripping the tops of his thighs. Dean gets distracted for a moment, just watching his hands flex. “Puberty seemed to hit me harder than Jimmy. He was walking around the park, healing birds with broken wings, and I was…”

“Buildin’ a lot of muscle in your right hand?” 

Castiel laughs, full and unexpectedly, and Dean smirks and leans into the seat. Yeah, okay, this whole thing might’ve thrown him off-course, but Dean Winchester’s still got it. 

“Something like that,” Castiel admits, looking a little sheepish. “I started noticing that life was a little easier whenever I did—give myself pleasure. Beyond just the general rush of endorphins.”

Dean crinkles his eyebrows together. “Like what?”

“Well…I would be worried about having enough money to buy popcorn at the movies, and suddenly find a twenty-dollar bill. Or I’d be stressed about a trigonometry quiz, and would take a break to…relax. When I’d go back to studying I would understand the material perfectly.”

“Jesus,” Dean breathes, eyes a little wide. “Dude, if that’d been me at fifteen, pretty sure I’d never stop jackin’ the beanstalk—if ya know what I mean.”

“I do, unfortunately,” Castiel says dryly, and Dean just snorts. 

“So, what? You were getting your rocks off and casting spells without meaning to?”

Castiel tilts his head, obviously thinking carefully, and Dean takes a moment to appreciate his silhouette. Sharp chin, stubble peppering his cheeks, long eyelashes… 

“More or less. Having an orgasm seemed lucky for me, somehow, like it manifested positive energy into my life. It usually impacted whatever I was thinking about before or during the act,” Castiel explains, almost clinically, and Dean’s gotta give it to Cas. He’s way classier than any practicer of sex magic has any right to be.

“And once you added somebody else in the mix?” Dean asks tentatively, not sure if he’s overstepping. They _are_ still on a first date, after all, but fuck if these aren’t some unusual circumstances.

“That’s when things get interesting,” Castiel admits, shuffling his feet around, crossing and uncrossing his ankles. “With every sexual encounter there are usually some effects. To both me and my partner. All I can say is, the majority of them are positive.”

_ The majority of them? _The question must show on Dean’s slack-jawed face, because Castiel immediately adds, “No no, nothing harmful ever happens. Usually wonderful things happen, if I’m being honest. But if circumstances are strained or things go badly, then it’ll be reflected there.”

“Huh,” is all Dean can manage at the moment.

“Our emotions are entwined with sex so heavily, and when you add a magical compontent to that, well…” Castiel swallows, looking uncomfortable for the first time all evening. “Is this too much for you, Dean? The—complexities of my situation?”

Dean pulls into his complex, parking Baby in the attached garage unit that he pays an arm and a leg for each month. (It’s about a zillion times safer than parking her in the lot beside people who don’t pay any goddamn attention to where they’re flinging their car doors.) Once the mechanical garage door closes, they’re engulfed in darkness. 

“Home sweet home,” Dean says hoarsely, feeling his closeness to Cas like a weight around his shoulders. He fights the impulse to touch him. 

“You didn’t answer my question,” Castiel points out evenly. The car is loud with silence—the creak of drafty walls, the leather of the steering wheel clinging to Dean’s hands. 

“I haven’t decided yet.” Dean drops his hands, practically feeling Castiel vibrating beside him. “Is it—is it why I’m so into you?”

“Is…what?” Castiel repeats cautiously.

“The sex magic or whatever,” Dean says in a rush, the surrounding blackness inside the Impala making him braver. “Is that why I can’t get you outta my head? Why I’m dying to…” He lets his sentence trail off, not sure either of them are ready for him to lay out all _ that _information just yet. Because wow, there’s a lot of scenarios flooding Dean’s brain right now. 

“No,” Castiel replies, and he sounds relieved, happy even. “My form of magic doesn’t work that way. In fact, I don’t even know how to use it properly. But I promise that it won’t affect your thoughts or emotions, Dean. I swear.”

Dean sighs with relief, feeling a little foolish. “So, I’m not like, under your spell or something?”

Castiel shifts in the seat, the sound of his laugh warm and deep, like a shot of top-shelf whiskey. “In a metaphorical sense only, I can assure you.”

Dean chuckles and throws his hand back against the seat, fingers skating across the skin on Castiel’s neck. “So what’s gonna happen if we…?”

“I have no clue,” Castiel whispers, hand traveling down towards Dean’s knee and squeezing. “I told you…I haven’t exactly embraced this ability. Each time is different.”

“That’s a big gamble, Cas.” Still, Dean scoots closer to him, their hips side-by-side now. 

“For how badly I want you, Dean Winchester, it may be worth the risk,” Castiel whispers, and that seals the deal in Dean’s book. His heart hammers out his chest as their lips meet for the second time this evening. It’s more tentative, shyer on both their ends, but Castiel is an incredible kisser so it’s easy to give him the reins. Kissing someone new is like trying to solve a puzzle, except _ a lot _ more fun, and Dean pulls away to lick his lips before diving back in. They find a rhythm easily, a push and pull that remains chaste but heats up quickly. Castiel puts a hand against his collarbones, pushing them apart minutely before saying in a low rumble, “I’d love to see the _ inside _ of your apartment…”

Dean’s not sure he’s ever moved quite this quickly in his life, but he’s pretty sure he hears Cas chuckling at his enthusiasm as he tears through the garage and up the steps. The space is filled with the clinking metal of his keys and sound of their breathing, until finally Dean tosses the door open and leads Castiel inside. He’s not exactly a home decorator, but he _ is _ a not-so-secret nester, and his space is filled with comfortable leather armchairs and glass decanters filled with whiskey and very, very masculine throw blankets. He turns on a nearby lamp, lighting up the interior with a soft yellow glow.

“This is lovely,” Castiel comments. Dean’s not sure if any of his friends or family have ever used the word _ lovely _to describe anything he’s done, mostly because they know they’d be met with a skeptical glare and two-plus decades’ of fine-tuned sarcasm. But having Cas’ approval already means more to him that it should, and he smiles geniunely.

“Living room, kitchen,” he points in each general direction, “down the hallway—bedroom, bathroom.” Giving a lightning fast tour means they might get back to kissing soon, which is his real prerogative.

“You forgot the library,” Castiel says lightly, walking into the corner and admiring Dean’s bookshelves. “Do you read often?”

“Define often,” Dean jokes, sliding his hands into his back pockets. 

“Just for fun,” Castiel adds. 

Dean grimaces. He’s been reading _ House of Leaves _for the library book exchange, but it feels more like homework—though very weird and interesting homework. There are too many storylines that run through the novel: a tattoo artist in love with a stripper (his words) and a family living in a haunted house. Dean spends half his time trying to sort through the footnotes, the text boxes, the appendices. It’s one giant riddle. “Not as much as I should,” he admits. “You?”

“My definition of ‘fun’ reading is translating the Book of Knowledge from the original Sanskrit,” Castiel says with a self-deprecating smile. “I spend too much time buried in my research.” 

“Yeah?” Dean strides across the room to close the space between them. “Sounds like you need something to take the edge off.”

“I have certainly earned a sabbatical, at least for the night.” Castiel reaches his hand forward, tugging on the cotton of Dean’s shirt. 

“Think I could make it worth your while,” Dean replies cheekily, letting himself fall in closer.

Castiel leans forward, nosing around Dean’s neck before planting small, wet kisses against the slope of his neck. Dean breathes out shakily, wanting very much to rush this thing along, but he gets the sense that Castiel is a “slow and steady” kind of guy until he’s _ not_. 

“Tonight I’m more interested in making it worth _ your _ while,” Castiel whispers into the shell of his ear. “Would you like that, Dean?”

Dean’s brain is five thousand percent offline when he mutters, “Oh, uh, yeah. Yes.”

“Good. Because I have quite a few ideas…” Castiel kisses become more insistent, sprawling down his neck and up again, outlining his chin. Dean’s already half-hard and nothing has even _ happened_, which is beyond ridiculous, and the realization makes him lose whatever meager self-control he possesses. He surges up, wrapping his hands around to cup Castiel’s jaw on either side, and kisses him filthily. His tongue presses against the seal of Cas’ lips, granted entrance as the tip flicks inside teasingly. He wraps his arms around Castiel’s back and pushes him, heading down the hallway and towards the bedroom. Castiel lets himself be manhandled as far as the mattress, but then he flips their position with quick, sure footing. The back of Dean’s knees collide with the bed, ready to give way. Their lips break apart, chests panting softly, and Castiel’s eyes roam Dean’s face wide and searching.

“I want to touch you,” Castiel rumbles, his hands slipping beneath the layers of shirts until Dean’s skin is smooth beneath his fingertips. 

“That’s sorta the idea,” Dean pants, hands reaching for the buttons of his shirt. 

“No, I mean…really touch you.”

Dean has no clue what that means, but Castiel goes back to kissing his neck and roaming his hands around Dean’s back, so he can’t complain. Cas strips him slowly, like each button is a personal roadblock he has to give attention to, and it’s infuriating and deliberate and way hotter than it should be. It feels like a lifetime later that he’s finally down to his boxers, but Cas is still fully clothed, so Dean mumbles, “Whatcha hiding underneath that trenchcoat?”

Castiel pulls his mouth away from Dean’s clavicle, on a spot that almost certainly has a hickey now, and blinks at Dean for a few moments before the words seem to settle. He takes off his coat and his shoes, placing them carefully by Dean’s dresser, and then rolls up his sleeves to the elbow. He’s still sporting more layers than most people wear on a normal spring day, but god, if he doesn’t look ruffled and indecent and tempting as sin.

“Don’t I get a show?” Dean jokes, but really, he’s feeling a little vulnerable in his boxers-only status, and he wants to touch Castiel as much as he wants to be touched. 

“You’ll get a show of some variety, trust me,” Castiel murmurs suggestively, his hands sliding back to Dean’s hips. He fingers the stretchy elastic of Dean’s underwear, slipping his hands underneath. “May I?”

Dean doesn’t trust himself to speak, so he just nods minutely and stares up at the ceiling. Castiel finishes him off in one steady pull, and Dean steps out of his boxers, his cock hard and neglected after so much lead-up.

“You’re exquisite,” Castiel breathes, hands touching him everywhere—neck, stomach, hips, thighs. Everywhere but his cock, much to Dean’s disappointment. He kisses Dean full on the mouth finally, for the first time in what feels like hours, and Dean moans into Castiel’s mouth, his erection brushing against Castiel’s zipper. 

“Gorgeous, Dean.” Castiel’s hands wrap around his waist and guide him backwards, tumbling towards the mattress as their lips separate. 

Dean blushes pink, sinking into his memory foam as Castiel stands above him still. “What’s next, sex god?”

“Not a sex god,” Castiel repeats for the second time tonight, his gaze momentarily sheepish before he’s back down to business. “Lay on your stomach.”

“Uh,” Dean mutters, a little nervous. There’s really only one way that position can go, and he’s not sure he wants Castiel to go from soft touches to fucking him into the mattress. Well, actually, that does sound really goddamn tempting, but he wants to be able to touch Cas’ face, to touch Cas _ back_, to—

“Everything okay?” Castiel says quietly, hands wrapping around the back of Dean’s neck and dropping a kiss to the top of his head. It’s weirdly…domestic, especially for a first date, but Dean is instantly soothed by it. 

“Yeah, it’s just, not sure I wanna be in that position for…” Dean clears his throat, embarrassed, while understanding seems to dawn on Castiel’s face.

“Dean, I don’t intend to penetrate you tonight. At least not from this position,” Cas says clearly, and Dean chuckles awkwardly by how plainspoken his date is. Jesus. “I just want to touch you. Remember?”

Dean nods, feeling as coy and airy as a schoolgirl, and then flips around, stomach-down on the mattress with a total lack of grace. He’s still crazy into Cas, but this is unexpected—first date sex usually involves some making out, some hand stuff, or maybe just sliding right into home if everyone’s on-board. Instead, he’s stretched out on his bed in the nude, Castiel hovering above him, and he feels like a prized lobster at a freaky sex restaurant. _ Twenty-seven-year-old male, naked as the day he was born, penis incredibly erect, wishes he could’ve orgasmed forty-five minutes ago. $22.95. _

“Cas,” he mutters into the comforter, shuffling onto his elbows a bit, “I’m not sure this is…”

He feels Castiel’s fingertips graze his calf, his thigh, his touch no longer just enticing and firm, but—warm. Lulling, quieting, magically so. Dean’s skin is flooded with warm. “Oh,” he mumbles, the tension leaving his shoulders. He falls back against the mattress, body heavy and pliant. Castiel uses both hands to massage Dean’s lower back, using quite a lot of strength behind each motion, and Dean knows this should hurt—his usual way of dealing with back pain is just to drink more whiskey—but no part of this massage causes him pain. Castiel’s hands are confident, self-assured and skilled.

“Feels nice,” Dean mumbles, sighing from the unexpected relief. 

“You have enough tension in your body to build a bridge,” Castiel says, spreading his palms and steering his attention to Dean’s shoulders. “Do you know what pleasures me the most, Dean?”

“A blowjob?” Dean says, half-joking as his body falls deeper into a malleable state.

“Close,” Castiel mumbles with a small chuckle. “But I prefer to connect with my partner spiritually, allowing us both to reach a higher state of being.” His hands glide in the dip of Dean’s back, kneading the tightness there. “A mind, body, and spiritual connection—in its purest form, that’s all erotic magic is. Contrary to popular belief, there’s nothing particularly flashy about it. It’s just channeling sexual energy into something powerful, even cosmic.”

“Shoulda told me you were a hippie ‘fore you got me naked,” Dean grumbles goodnaturedly. He’s never been in this situation before, ever—getting a magical rubdown from a fully-clothed man as he waxes poetic, philosophizing about sex. 

There’s a dip in the mattress, a knee falling in between legs, Castiel partially straddling in. “Are you not enjoying yourself?” he says, bending down to kiss at the back of Dean’s neck. 

“Didn’t say that,” Dean whispers, shivering at the press of Castiel’s body against him. Truthfully, this is the best he’s felt in months—all he ever does is work, and get drunk, and occasionally have random hookups that don’t last the night. As much as he knows he shouldn’t dive headfirst into this thing with Cas—he’s cultured, he’s intimidatingly hot, he has no interest in staying in Lawrence—Dean has been intrigued by this mysterious man for months now. Having hands running up and down his body, pouring warmth into his skin, mixed with the gravelly voice of Castiel above him and the weight pressed against his back—

The whole experience is intoxicating. 

“Good, because I’m quite enjoying myself.” Castiel demonstrates this moving his hands southward, kneading the top of Dean’s glutes until he’s grabbing fistfull of Dean’s ass. Dean gasps sharply, relaxation turning to arousal, and he ruts against the mattress he’s pinned too, trying to get some relief for his ever-aching cock. 

“Can I ask you something?” 

Dean freezes, his mind whirling. “Sure.”

“Do you top or bottom?” The rasp in Castiel’s voice the only indication that they’re talking about something deeply intimate. The way Cas’ hands are cupping his ass, always skirting the edge of slipping a finger into his crack, makes Dean let out a low rumble of desperation.

“Either,” he admits, then adds, “But for you, sweetheart, I’d bottom all night long.”

“Good to know,” Castiel says, his voice almost a purr as he leans forward, kissing Dean’s neck and shoulders, the weight of him crushing Dean in the most satisfying way. He feels claimed, consumed, watched over. “Do you feel relaxed?”

“Weirdly, yeah,” Dean mutters. “I’m…calm, but turned on still, if that makes any sense.”

He can practically hear the grin in Cas’ voice when he says, “It does, beautiful. I imagine you’re ready to come?”

Dean definitely does _ not _whimper, pushing his groin further into the mattress, feeling weightless and aroused. He wants, and he wants badly. Suddenly his hips are being pulled upright, his limbs being moved for him, and then he’s straddling Castiel’s lap, looking him in the eye again for the first time in a while. He dominates Dean with a bruising kiss, firm and wet and overpowering, and Dean melts against him. When Castiel’s hand wraps around his cock and strokes him, the same warmth from the massage makes his dick feel hot and tingly, and he moans into Castiel’s open mouth and comes instantly, spilling over Castiel’s hand as his vision spots. He falls backwards until he’s staring back up at the ceiling, utterly spent. It happened so fast, but in another sense, it took hours.

Afterwards he’s aware of small things. A wet washcloth. A glass of water. A body wrapped around his. When he blinks back to consciousness, it’s the middle of the night. Three a.m., to be exact. He stares up at the ceiling, wondering—did Cas even get off? How could Dean be so rude that he didn’t even reciprocate? He’s never orgasmed so hard from so little stimulation. Jesus. Cas is still here though, here and holding Dean to his chest, so he supposes that counts for something. God, he just passed the fuck out. How could that happen?

And more importantly: how will sex with anyone else ever live up to _ this_?

***

When Dean wakes up for the second time, beams of sunlight are streaming in through his window. He’s sweaty, his head pillowed back on his side of the bed. His limbs are tangled up with Cas’ under the sheets. He yawns and leans up on his elbows. He takes a moment to stare at him—wondering who Castiel Novak is. _ Really_. Is he a brilliant academic? A wandering explorer? A tender romantic? A dominating lover? It’s like the guy is two parts nerd, one part sex pot, with that last sliver remaining an utter mystery. 

Dean reaches over to his nightstand, touched to see his phone was plugged in for him and is fully charged. He checks the time, wondering if he has time to make Cas breakfast before he drops him back off at his car, when he sees a text from Missouri. He skims her text quickly, blinking in surprise. Apparently she woke up thinking Dean needed a vacation day, so she’s insisting that he take the whole day off, and Alfie and Becky are prepared to handle the circulation desk without him. Huh. 

He falls back into the mattress. Has he ever received a spontaneous vacation day for no reason? Missouri is a great boss, but…_ nope. _He turns to his side, the sight of Castiel’s pink and parted lips fascinating to stare at, and thinks about what Cas had warned him about. About the effects, the spells that can be cast without meaning to… Hadn’t he had a thought last night, in the middle of Cas slowly taking him apart, about how all he does is work? And now, the morning after their hook-up, he’s given an unexpected vacation day?

“Well, I’ll be damned,” he mumbles, and then he smiles a little. He gets to have an awesome orgasm _ and _a random Tuesday off? Castiel might be the best freaking thing to ever happen to him. But, he reminds himself, a very fleeting thing. He can’t get attached. He frowns a little at the thought, but he clears his mind before he can get too somber. He doesn’t know what’s on Castiel agenda for today, but surely he won’t mind being woken up in an extra special way?

Dean moves stealthily under the sheet, crawling between Castiel’s legs carefully, hoping not to wake him. To his utter delight, Castiel is only wearing a pair of boxers, and Dean gets to leave kisses on his neck, his collarbones, his abdomen, his thighs. Castiel stirs and hums above him, but still seems very much asleep. He must be a morning wood kinda guy, because he’s half-hard when Dean snakes his hand into Cas’ boxers. He stiffens immediately under Dean’s strokes, his feet shuffling against the sheets, and Dean grins and lowers his mouth. He could slowly adjust Castiel to the sensation, but after being under Cas’ thumb last night, part of him wants to inflict a little torture of his own. He takes a deep breath and takes Castiel’s cock as far into his mouth as he can, the cockhead bumping the back of his throat. The moan Dean hears is downright pornographic, and he hums with excitement when he feels the sheet being tossed off his back. He flutters his eyes up at Castiel, who’s wide-eyed now and panting, and pops off long enough to lick and suck at the head hungrily. 

“Dean,” Castiel breathes, more of a moan than a fully comprehensible word, and Dean answers by taking him back into the hot, wet heat of his mouth. Castiel’s hips buck up involutionary, and Dean puts as much force as he can muster into holding the other man’s hips down as his mouth sucks and licks and teases. He loves the sounds Castiel is making above him—he’s never been with someone so unashamed of sex, so unreseved in showing his appreciation. “Gorgeous, Dean, so good. Oh, baby, you’re so good. I’m so close…”

In the end, it’s the combination of his mouth along with a hand gently rolling Castiel’s balls between his fingertips that makes him breathe out in a rush, “Dean, Dean, I’m going to—” Then there’s come shooting down his throat. Dean’s not usually one to swallow, but damn if Cas’ spunk isn’t half-decent. He still has a little come in the corners of his mouth when Castiel pulls him up and smashes their lips together, kissing greedily, as if they might never happen on the opportunity again. Castiel rolls them around until he’s on top, and it’s such an abrupt and playful motion that Dean chuckles and smiles into the kiss, feeling so dangerously close to happy that it aches a little. Because this thing between them, whatever it is, it’s not going to be forever. Hell, forget _ forever_—it’s not going to last longer than eight months. If he keeps going in this direction, the only thing he’ll get for Christmas is a Cas-shaped hole in his life.

“Where’d you go just now?” Castiel says quietly, running his fingers over Dean’s cheek.

“Just, uh…thinking about what I wanna do today.” Castiel gives him a bit of a puzzled look, so he adds, “Boss gave me the day off, just ‘cause. Looks like your sexy little mojo did its job.”

“It could just be a coincidence,” Castiel says reasonably, though his eyes are shining. “What is on the agenda, then? Perhaps more of this?” He kisses Dean’s cheeks, his chin, his nose, and Dean’s heart pounds so loud he wonders if Cas can hear it. 

“If, of course…you want to,” Castiel adds, frowning slightly and looking crestfallen. 

“Yeah, yeah. Definitely—yeah,” Dean rambles, clearing his throat. When he looks back up, Castiel is tilting his head and staring up at him with wide, soft eyes. Dean exhales loudly, tightening his hands into the bedsheets. “I, uh, have a question for you.”

Castiel sits up, gathering the excess sheets around his waist. “I’m listening.”

“So, you don’t really know how the hell to control your magic, right? You’ve never really tried?”

Castiel gaps at him, but nods. “It’s not a particularly refined area of expertise. I took some courses in college, but it’s not something you can control without focus and…well, practice.”

“What if I could give you both?” Dean says steadily, surprised the words are stumbling out his mouth. Castiel raises his eyebrows, but all Dean can do is plow forward. “I’m a librarian—there’s not much I don’t like learnin’ about. And after last night, and this morning, I wanna get in all the _ practice _ with you that I can.”

Castiel grins a little wickedly. “You want to help me hone my magic?” He smile slips a little, though, when asks, “And you and I, we would be…?”

Dean shrugs, swallowing a dry lump in his throat. “We don’t gotta label it. You’re not sticking around Lawrence, and I’m not traveling around the earth lookin’ for sacred artifacts or whatever. We’re just two guys having a good time. Right?”

Castiel’s face is suddenly unreadable. He closes his mouth, his gaze turning even. “Right.”

“Cool,” Dean murmurs, scratching the back of his neck. “So, uh…wanna shower? Then maybe I’ll take you out to lunch? I got a friend I need to see, and she just happens to make the best burgers in town.”

Castiel brightens a little, stretching in a way that Dean finds very distracting. Jesus, this guy is gonna be the death of him… 

“You had me at burgers,” Castiel says, giving Dean a short peck on the lips before climbing over him and heading towards the bathroom. “How do you feel about shower sex?”

Dean’s brain has promptly left the building. Normally he’d point out that shower sex is complicated as hell, but at this point, he’d try about anything Cas had in mind. “Pretty damn good.”

“Well, then, who knows what might happen? Maybe you’ll even end up leaned against the shower wall, panting my name as you come. Or maybe I’ll just swallow you down instead.”

“I, uh…” 

Y’know,” Castiel says cheekily, “if you’re lucky.”

Turns out Dean _ is _ lucky. He just might be the luckiest son of a bitch in town.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> How'd you like the chapter? What do you think of Cas' skills?


	6. Chapter 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> GUESS WHO'S BACK BITCHES!!!
> 
> okay okay, as excited as I am to have returned to this story, I have a confession to make. So I don't know what happened, but I had major writer's block on this fic, and it lasted soooo much longer than I expected. I really am so sorry, y'all—if you read my other stuff, you know I'm usually very dependable with WIPs. Something just momentarily got disconnected in my creative brain, that's all I can say. Shit happens, I was disappointed in myself, but hey… I got it figured out finally, and I'm back and ready to blow this story out of the water. 
> 
> So. Let's. Do. This.

Turns out there’s a lunch rush at the Roadhouse. Dean’s usually across town at the library by this time of day, so he’s surprised by the turnout. It takes him a minute of scouting, but he finds an empty booth in the back corner and tugs on Castiel’s sleeve, dragging him along. 

“Looks like your secret is out,” Castiel says lightly, craning his neck around the crowded bar. Dean blinks, his face blank, wondering what the hell Cas is talking about—what secret? The one where Dean is already super into Cas an _ embarrassing _amount?

“W-what?” he asks, realizing he sounds flustered.

Castiel tilts his head, his eyebrows raised. His lips are pursed—shaped like a smile that he seems to be holding in. “Your friend, and how she makes the best burger in town?”

“Oh, uh, right.” Dean clears his throat and looks away, wishing on every molecule of pride he has left that he’s not gonna push Cas away with his awkwardness. And wishing that he had a beer in hand, like _ now_. “Well, she’s less a friend and more like family. Ellen’s known my parents and my uncle Bobby for my whole life.”

Castiel nods along, as if he knows. “Is he your uncle on your mom or dad’s side?” 

“Well, he’s not really my uncle. More like a grumpy old hermit if I’m being honest—but he makes an exception for me’n Sammy.”

“Understandably. You and Sam are both wonderful,” Castiel says, using that confident tone that Dean’s come to think of as uniquely Cas. He has a way of implying that his compliments to Dean aren’t opinions, but facts, and it’s absurd and awesome and embarrassing as hell. Even with their clothes firmly on, Cas makes Dean’s stomach somersault.

“Yeah, Sammy’s a good kid,” Dean mutters, practically on autopilot at this point. Bragging about Sam and deflecting praise are both Dean Winchester’s specialties, after all. Castiel licks his lips and opens his mouth, posed to reply, when Ellen hustles over to their table. Her hair is brown and a little frizzy, her work apron slightly stained, and even though she’s busy she looks pleased to see Dean.

“What’re you doing here, boy?” she demands with a grin. “You’re early by—” she makes a show of checking her wristwatch, “—at least six hours.”

“Got the day off,” Dean says with a raise of his hands, as if he had nothing to do with it. And honestly, he didn’t—that was all Castiel and his sexy ass, magic mojo. 

“Lucky you.” She looks around the bustling bar with slight disdain, then glances over at Castiel, who seems to be watching their exchange with a mild amount of interest. “And who’s this?”

“Castiel Novak,” Cas says, suddenly all-business as he reaches his hand over to shake Ellen’s. She chuckles but returns the shake, looking at Dean like he’s invited an alien into the booth to have lunch with him. “Nice to meet you.”

“You, too.” Her voice is slightly suspicious, and there’s a wicked gleam in her eye. “So you _ do _ have friends with manners, huh?” 

“Well, I am friends with your daughter, so I guess I usually keep bad company,” Dean jokes with a smirk. Castiel leans forward, eyes squinting with curiosity, so Dean adds, “Remember Jo? She was in charge of the picnic at the library?”

“Of course,” Castiel says easily. 

“That’s my girl,” Ellen says, the pride in her voice evident. “Though, Dean nearly gave her a heart attack that day. Handling a cursed object and gettin’ poisoned…” She smacks Dean on the shoulder suddenly and he hisses in surprise. “What were you thinking, jumping in like that?”

“Ouch,” Dean grumbles, rubbing the spot on his shoulder that bore the brunt of her attack. “I dunno. I wasn’t, I guess.”

“Yeah, well…” She shoots Cas a conspiratorial glance. “Try and keep him outta trouble for me?”

“Seems like a full-time job,” Castiel says with a chuckle, and Dean grunts, debating on if he should kick Castiel’s shin under the table. 

Someone calls Ellen’s name from a few tables over, and she scrubs a hand over her face. “Sorry, boys, duty calls. What can I put in y’all?”

Dean and Castiel each order burgers, but as she’s walking away, a thought occurs to Dean. “Hey, I heard you wanted to talk to me and Sam about something, right?”

Ellen freezes momentarily, frowning deeply enough that Dean’s stomach is filled with lead. 

“Nothing important, really. I don’t wanna worry you,” she says, stepping back towards their table with her voice lowed. “But the Campbells came in last week.”

“Shit,” Dean mutters, scratching the back of his neck. His mom’s side of the family is filled with troublemakers, criminals—having them back in Lawrence, that’s the worst news he’s heard in a while. “Who? Samuel?”

Ellen nods solemnly. “And a few others.”

“Great,” Dean says with a sigh. He can feel Castiel’s eyes on him, but he can’t bring himself to explain. 

“Just keep your head up and don’t let them get to you,” Ellen says. “You hear me?”

“Yes ma’am,” Dean grumbles, staring down at his hands. When she walks away, he changes the subject quickly, asking Castiel about how Jimmy and Amelia met. The last thing he wants to do is scare the guy off thanks to his fucked-up family.

***

The books on sex magic, Dean learns, are scattered about each department of the library. There are some in Speciality Fields, a ton in Eroticism, and even a few on the bottom shelf of Self-Help. Dean snickers a little at that, but supposes it’s not totally far off—it_ is _ helpful. At least, theoretically. 

He’s glad he’s a library employee and can go behind the circulation desk and checkout his own selections. The thought of anyone seeing these books—especially someone who knows him—makes him blush bright red. It’s not that he doesn’t have a reputation for getting a little down and dirty, but he usually reins that in at work. He tucks all the research into his knapsack, closing the zipper carefully before slinging the bag over his shoulder. 

It’s been a few days since his date with Cas, and while he’s going through the motions of his everyday life as if nothing has changed—drinks at the Roadhouse, lunches with Charlie, weekend plans with Sam—he feels like he’s going from place to place in a sort of daze. He hasn’t heard from Castiel lately, not since they had lunch together and Dean dropped Cas off at his car. It’s been several days, and truthfully, Dean expected to be pursued a bit more aggressively than this. He knows this thing works both ways and he’s the one who made their arrangement casual…but don’t friends casually chat, casually have meals together, casually have mind-blowing, toe-curling sex?

In the end, it’s Dean who reaches out first. He’s sitting in his armchair late on Friday night, perusing _ The Anicent Practice of Sex Magick, _when he reads something so strange that he grabs his phone and dials Castiel on the spot. It’s on the third ring when the reality of the situation hits Dean—is he seriously going to call up a guy he’s been on a date with once, at ten-thirty at night? 

He’s about to hang up when he hears, “Dean?”

“Uh,” Dean says, brain short-circuiting for a moment because damn, it’s good to hear Cas’ voice. “Hey.”

“Hello,” Castiel greets, amusement in his voice. There’s a beat of silence where neither of them speak, and even though Dean knows he called Cas, he can’t seem to form the words. Finally, Cas asks, “How are you?”

“Good, really good. Dandy.” Dean cringes—god, he’s such a fuckup sometimes—and grabs the lowball glass of whiskey on his coffee table. He downs it all in one go, and then blurts out, “Did you know your come has healing properties?”

_ Oh my god, kill me now. _

“I did, actually,” Castiel says, conversational but surprised. “I always thought it was funny—Jimmy can heal people with his hands, and I can heal them with my… Well, you get the idea.”

Dean laughs nervously and mutters, “Uh, well cool. Glad to hear it.” He swallows, looking down at the book in his lap before mumbling, “Well, bye, I guess.”

“Wait!” Castiel exclaims, then chuckles at his own apparent enthusiasm. “Correct me if I’m wrong, but are you just sitting in your apartment on a Friday night, studying sex magic?”

“Um…maybe?” Dean’s tone is cautious, wondering how pathetic he sounds right now. “Bet you’re thinking—_ I sure am glad I hooked up with this loser librarian_, huh?”

“Actually, I was wondering why you’re alone when you could be warm in my bed,” Castiel says smoothly. Dean’s nerves settle a little for the first time in days, replaced with a racing heart and a goofy sort of excitement. 

“You’d have to invite me over first,” Dean points out.

“Dean, would you like to come over?” Castiel asks, voice so playful that Dean can’t tell if the offer is good or not. He looks around his living room—he’s wearing sweatpants, cartoon socks, and he’s two whiskeys in. 

“No thanks,” Dean says, and Castiel laughs in surprise. Dean wonders if he’ll have to explain his reasonings—he’s not above sending evidence of the fifth of whiskey he’s chipped away on—but Castiel recovers quickly. 

“So you really did just call me on a Friday night to share strange facts about my semen?”

“Yep. And it’s your lucky day, ‘cause there are more,” Dean says with a grin, flipping the page in his book. “Did you know that you can cast a spell by putting your come in a box, burying it underground, and calling on earth’s elements to perform your will?”

“Interesting.” Castiel pauses, as if he’s contemplating something. “Is this activity we’re doing considered some form of foreplay? Because I have to say, it’s strange even for me.” 

Dean snorts and says, “Nope, but I do have one more. Your come can be used in potions as a powerful combining agent.” Dean makes a quick grimace. “Do you think some store-bought potions have come in them? ‘Cause that’s fucking disgusting.”

“I don’t remember that being your reaction a few days ago,” Castiel says lowly, and Dean has a sudden image in his head—sunk beneath the comforter, Castiel’s cock shooting come down his throat. _ Fuck. _

“Well, that was different. Swallowing pre-approved come is fine,” he mumbles. “It’s sneaky potion come that I ain’t putting anywhere near my mouth.”

Castiel laughs, deep and rich, and the sound makes Dean feel warm all over. “I’ve missed you,” he says smoothly, then pauses, adding in a more stilted voice, “Is that okay to say?”

Dean swallows. “Uh, yeah, course.” He exhales, closing the book in his lap as he stands up and heads for his bar cart. He needs more whiskey if he’s going to be remotely honest during this conversation. “But I didn’t miss you at all. Just called you ‘cause none of those semen facts could wait till morning.”

“Oh, obviously.” Castiel chuckles, then says in a clearer voice, “I’ve had my head stuck in research this week, but it’s time to come up for air. Can I see you tomorrow?”

Dean takes his time pouring his whiskey, letting Cas sweat it out a little before saying, “Yeah, I guess so.”

There’s a beat of silence until Castiel says, “Not sure how you do that,” almost to himself. Dean just hums inquisitively until Castiel continues. “You call me in the middle of the night spouting off facts about magic sperm, yet I still come away from the conversation having asked you out and feeling rather sheepish about it.”

“Point is?” Dean says, fighting the urge to chuckle.

“Dean,” Castiel emphasizes, sounding incredulous, “_ you _ called me.”

Dean grins, taking a long sip of his drink. He sighs as the warmth fills his chest. “What can I say? It’s a gift.”

Castiel chuckles again, voice warm as whiskey, and says, “Goodnight, Dean.”

“See ya tomorrow, Cas.”

An hour later Dean lies in bed, looking up at the ceiling and fighting the urge to wrap a hand around his cock—imagining all the sensations tomorrow has in store for him. He’d really like to rub one out, but all of the books he’s thumbed through on the subject say that waiting is better. Pent-up sexual energy is supposedly one of the most powerful forces in the world, and the more tension and longing, the grander the results.

One thing’s for certain… When it comes to sex with Cas, they’ve got the longing thing down pat. 

***

The morning after their second date, Dean wakes up in his bed with Castiel’s arm slung around him. He’s not sure how they immediately decided to do overnight stays, as if holding each other all night long and waking up together is a casual thing. It’s not, and Dean knows this…but he still can’t stop himself from snuggling in closer, a long and contented sigh escaping his lips. Last night had been incredible—Dean had decided to cook for Cas, who praised Dean’s cooking far more than was necessary. After some dinner conversation and a particularly steamy makeout session in the middle of washing dishes, they had ended up horizontal on the mattress. Thanks to the intensity of their earlier kissing, they were both too turned on to wait long, and ended up rutting against each other and coming simultaneously. Even though Dean had grand plans on doing so much more, it had felt amazing. To be honest, every interaction he had with Cas felt amazing.

Which is why the temporary nature of their agreement occasionally made him feel sick to his stomach. 

He feels a pair of lips brushing the back of his neck, and he relaxes minutely, trying to clear his mind. It’s too damn early to get this angsty—and anyways, Cas is still _ in his bed_. Dean ought to be taking advantage of that. 

He cranes his neck and scoots back closer, their hips flush under the blankets. Castiel takes the invitation for what it is and his lips begin to travel, still soft and light. When Dean feels the brush of an erection against his bare asscheek, though, things quickly go from tender to steamy in two seconds flat. 

“Mmm,” Dean mutters, grinding his hips back and forth, just enough friction to make Castiel’s cock stand to attention, his breath catching in his throat. “Mornin’, sunshine.”

“A good morning, indeed,” Castiel says, his hand wandering from Dean’s stomach and moving up, flicking a nipple lightly with his nails. Dean hums, fighting back a breathy moan. He cranes his neck, searching for Castiel’s lips, and they brush against his—dry and warm and perfect. Castiel’s still brushing his cock against Dean’s ass, so he adjusts himself a little and parts his cheeks, heart racing as Cas’ prominent erection rubs against his hole. 

“Dean,” Castiel says, their mouths barely an inch apart as they breathe the same air. There’s a question in his voice, likely wondering how far Dean intends to take this. Dean’s wondering the same thing, but he’s not sure he’ll be patient enough for Cas to use his fingers right now to open him up—to prep him enough to be fucked. He just wants to get them both off, quick and dirty.

“Do you remember that spell I mentioned last night?” Dean says, adjusting his head more comfortably on the pillow. Behind him, Castiel chuckles and mutters _ yes_. “Well, I want you to use that right now. Then I want you to rub one out against me.”

A particularly strong thrust into Dean’s crack makes them grasp each other tighter. “I’m not sure I can do that spell. I didn’t even know it existed until you told me,” Castiel points out. 

Dean swivels his hips backwards, eliminating any trace of space between them. The feeling of Cas’ erection pushed against him, so close to penetrating him but not quite, makes him feel hopelessly turned on and desperate. He wiggles his hips, rocking them against Cas’ erect cock. “Well, is this enough motivation for you to learn?”

Castiel chuckles into his ear, his mouth moving back to Dean’s neck and sucking on a patch of skin. Every point of contact makes Dean feel heated, needy—their legs tangled up, Cas’ hands grazing his nipples. Cas’ lips are forming a hickey on his neck, his erection rubbing against Dean’s ass in a tantalizing rhythm. 

“You are an excellent motivator,” Castiel agrees, coming up to nip playfully on Dean’s ear lobe. His hands travel from Dean’s chest to his groin, caressing the V of his upper thighs before lightly touching Dean’s cock—hard and waiting, precome at the tip. Dean’s heart pounds from the touch, simple as it is, and then his skin feels warm and tingly…the effects of Castiel’s sex magic making him feel flushed. The heat travels to every inch of his dick until he nearly whimpers, so overpowered by the feeling, and then Castiel strokes him suddenly. The glide is smooth, wet and slippery, and Dean moans outright at the intensity of it. 

“You did it,” Dean says shakily. He wasn’t sure if Cas could master the “instant lubrication” spell Dean found in one of the instruction books, but this is his area of expertise. Not only is Dean’s dick good and lubed up, it’s also tingling, like he’s on the verge of getting goosebumps. It’s both relaxing and invigorating, a combination he never would’ve associated with a good hand job, and he marvels again at just how different sex with Cas can be. 

Castiel drops his hand momentarily, and Dean struggles not to whine. Behind him, he feels Cas’ hand dropping to his own groin, his quick breaths of concentration, and then he’s rubbing a freshly-lubed cock effortlessly against Dean’s crack. 

“Fuck,” Dean sighs, noting the slip and slide, how much faster Cas can work now them towards orgasm now that the way ahead is smooth. He wraps his hand back around Dean’s erection, whispering, “God, Dean, you feel so good,” before setting a slow, unhurried pace. This is Castiel’s MO, Dean’s figuring out—nothing about sex with Cas is rushed, despite how much Dean loves a good quickie. It’s not often that a hand job gets him shaking, rutting into a tight palm as his breath comes out like an eager growl. But everything about Cas is different, and the feeling of his wet cock sliding up and down his crack is making him regret his earlier impatience. 

“Really want you to fuck me,” he practically slurs, just lying there as Cas works him over from every angle. Cas, ever the multitasker, is even kissing Dean’s neck again as he slowly takes him apart. 

“I really want that, too,” Castiel admits, mumbling against his skin, and Dean tries not to get too excited by this prospect. It’s not as if he didn’t think it would ever happen—this is what fuck buddies do, right? 

“Now?” Dean asks, hopefully, and Castiel chuckles behind him. 

“You should let yourself enjoy what you have, Dean,” he says, sounding so wise that it’s borderline irritating. 

“Or, I can enjoy your cock,” he argues, moving his body in time with Castiel’s hands and cock. He’s getting stimulation from every end, and it’s so overwhelming that he wants to cry out. “Splitting me open, stuffing me full…”

Castiel moans in his ear, apparently turned on by that image enough to double his pace. It’s not what Dean wants, not exactly, but it is getting him closer to the finish line than before. When they do eventually come, it’s with Dean’s hand wrapped around his own cock, Castiel holding his hips tightly as he thrusts against him from behind. Dean feels Castiel’s shuddering breath, a wetness on his back, and then he’s coming too…dirtying his stomach and the sheets.

“Jesus,” Dean heaves, lying there boneless. He rolls over and kisses Castiel, and even though it’s domestic and sweet and everything he fears he’ll never have, he lets himself for now. They trade lazy, sated kisses, not leading anywhere except for further into each other’s arms. Dean cleans them up with a quick spell and their arms wrap tightly around each other, falling asleep again with their lips posed for the next kiss.

***

There’s a pounding on the door when Dean wakes. He squints, searching for his phone to check the time. He knows Bobby and Sam are coming over for the usual Sunday family lunch, but that’s hours away…right…?

“Where the hell’s my phone?” he mumbles, wondering if he left it on the kitchen table last night. 

“Hmm?” Castiel says, tucking his head against Dean’s neck and burrowing in closer. Castiel appreciates his sleep, it seems, and Dean chuckles even in his panic. He spots Cas’ phone on the distant nightstand and reaches over, putting all his weight on Cas’ chest in a way that makes the man beneath him huff uncomfortably. 

“Sorry,” Dean says apologetically, shifting his weight around until he touches the phone screen. And then he sees that it’s nearly noon and mutters, “Shit!” at the same time that Sam, on the other side of the door, shouts a muffled, “Dean!”

He launches himself from bed, nearly tripping when the sheets tangle around his feet. “Shit shit shit,” he mumbles, looking around his bedroom for clothes, any clothes. He ends up throwing on a pair of sweatpants and Castiel’s undershirt, but whatever, it’s enough to at least open the door. He unlocks the deadbolt and flings the door open, and his oversized little brother looks at him with a mixture of incredulity, annoyance, and amusement.

“Hey, sleeping beauty,” Sam greets, taking a step through the threshold. “Since when you do sleep in? And why do you look so…?” 

The door shuts and Dean swallows, wondering how Sam plans to finish that sentence. He can only imagine how debauched he looks, but it’s not until Castiel comes from the bedroom with his jeans slung low, a button-up shirt open to his bare chest, that Dean realizes how well and truly fucked they look. Castiel’s hair is messy and tousled, his lips pink and puffy, and he’s a little breathless from dressing in such a hurry. Good god, he’s beautiful. 

“Hi Sam,” Castiel says, his voice so even and flat that Dean turns his head and snorts. Wow, it’s been a long time since Sam’s caught him in this particular scenario, but it’s even more awkward considering Sam and Cas know each other. 

Sam just grins, sliding his light jacket off and draping it over the chair. “Hey, Cas. Fancy seeing you here.”

He shoots Dean a look, which Dean pointedly ignores in favor of directing his gaze towards Cas. “So I’ll, uh, call you?”

Castiel opens his mouth, still looking flustered, but Sam answers first. “Jeez, Dean, at least let the guy get dressed before you kick him out.”

“I’m not kicking him out,” Dean says sharply, glaring at his brother fully now. 

Sam ignores him fully and asks, “Cas, would you like to have lunch with us?”

And then it happens—the most awkward thing that’s ever happened to Dean, and it goes down in such a way that he briefly wonders if he’ll spend the rest of his life replaying the moment and wondering what the hell he was thinking.

He and Castiel begin speaking at the same time.

“That would be—” Castiel begins.

“Dude, he’s not gonna—” Dean halts suddenly, blinking. What Castiel about to agree to lunch with his _ family_? “Oh, uh…what?”

Castiel’s eyes widen, looking as awkward as Dean feels. “Oh, I…I wouldn’t want to intrude.”

“You wouldn’t be, it’s just…” _ It’s just, having you meet Bobby and come to family lunch and pretend like you’re my boyfriend might literally kill me. _ Dean knows no other way to finish that sentence, knows that he’s royally screwing up this whole conversation, but still the silence just hangs between them—heavy and tense. 

Finally, he adds, “It’s just not a good time.” It’s an immensely lame excuse, even to his own ears, and he tries not to wince. It’s just family lunch—why is he freaking out so badly?

Castiel gives him a small, strained smile that doesn’t reach his eyes. “No problem. I just remembered I have plans anyways.” He turns abruptly, heading into the kitchen for his shoes and keys. Sam is giving Dean a look so incredulous that it’s borderline irritated, and Dean just wants to melt into the floor before Castiel returns.

But he does return, his shirt half-buttoned, his remaining possessions cradled in his hands. He hasn’t looked at Dean since Sam arrived, not really—not like they usually do, all soul-searching and heated and intimate. He gives Sam’s hand a goodbye shake before finally offering Dean a glance, his expression unreadable and masked. He pecks a half-hearted kiss on Dean’s cheek, mutters, “Thank you for your hospitality,” in a tone that’s almost certainly sarcastic.

Then he leaves. 

The front door shuts but Dean is still frozen, unsure if he should run after Cas or locate a fifth of whiskey. A throat clears behind him and another layer of dread fills Dean’s stomach. He spins around slowly, noting Sam’s arms are crossed and there’s a frown on his face. 

“What was _ that_?” his brother demands. Dean rolls his eyes and settles on option two: whiskey. He moves around the kitchen, opening his cabinets in search of clean glass. Sam trails behind him, talking a mile a minute. “Why did you blow Cas off like that? I thought you liked him! He’s a good guy, Dean, and he didn’t deserve that—”

“Do me a favor, Sammy,” Dean interrupts, tipping the whiskey into his glass, “and shut the hell up.”

Sam huffs irritably. “This is why I never introduce you to anybody, you know.”

This is news to Dean, and despite his desire to be alone and drink himself into oblivion, he shoots Sam a glare. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

“It means you have commitment issues, and sometimes it makes you act like a dick,” Sam says, the words coming out way too easily. What the actual fuck? How long has his brother thought this way?

“That’s bullshit.” Dean takes a large swallow, the whiskey burning in his throat making him feel like coughing. “You don’t know what you’re talking about.”

Sam’s face changes from wrathful to downright pity, which is a thousand times more annoying. “Your last relationship was literally in high school with Rhonda Hurley.”

“So?” Dean stares down at the counter, playing his glass as it clinks on the countertop. “That’s been fine with me, man. I want to get laid, I head to the Roadhouse and get laid. I don’t hook up with people from work because I’m a goddamn _ children’s _ librarian. I get my rocks off when I need to and it’s not a problem.”

Sam puts his elbows on the counter, leaning forward. “And no one you’ve met is worth more to you than casual sex?”

Dean swallows, closing his eyes and exhaling slowly. Unbidden and unwelcomed, images come to his mind. His hand clasped with Castiel’s over dinner. The tickle of Cas’ hair on the back of his neck. The warm, safe feeling of waking up together in bed. 

When Sam speaks again, his voice is softer, quieter. “What about Cas?” 

Dean chuckles darkly, opening his eyes and wiping the sleep from his eyes. “Whatever I feel for Cas doesn’t matter. Lawrence is barely a blip on his radar, man. Can’t get attached to someone I can’t have.” 

Sam doesn’t argue against it, likely knowing better than Dean how ambitious Castiel is. A brilliant researcher, a commanding academic, a certified sex god. There’s no way to hold down a guy like that, so why the fuck did Dean even let himself pretend he could? 

“And besides,” Dean adds, really feeling like he’s on a roll now, “like you said, I’ve basically blown my chance with him anyways, right? So there’s no point in talking about it.”

He finishes the whiskey in one gulp, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand.

“Dean—”

“I’m going to take a shower,” he grumbles, though washing up won’t help—he’ll be thinking about Cas’ hands on his body for the rest of the day. He should strip the sheets, too—get rid of any evidence that he had a good thing going there, and now he doesn’t. Sure, he could probably call Cas up and apologize—maybe he could blame it all on Bobby, could say the old kook doesn’t like them bringing plus-ones to family lunch (in reality, Bobby couldn’t give a shit).

But Dean’s tired of pining over someone he can’t have. Tired of pretending that this thing between them isn’t gonna leave him split wide open the moment it’s over. All he can do is move forward and try to forget that someone as perfect and unattainable as Castiel Novak even exists. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Poor, sad, self-deprecating Dean…

**Author's Note:**

> I love comments, so drop a line and say hi!


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